


the warning signs have all been bright and garish

by SyntheticRevenge



Series: things will shortly get completely out of hand [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (but it's not super relevant to the plot it is just also there), Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Beholding Avatar Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Canon Asexual Character, College Student Jonathan Sims, Complete, Hunt Avatar Gerard Keay, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Leitner Books (The Magnus Archives), M/M, Mental Health Issues, Nonbinary Gerard Keay, Nonbinary Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, The Mechanisms Were The Archivist's College Band, everyone's trans in this household
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:41:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 34,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25571503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SyntheticRevenge/pseuds/SyntheticRevenge
Summary: “Can I have that back?” Jon asks, stupidly holding his hand out, like a child demanding candy. The person is still in shadow, even though Jon's fairly certain that based on his lifetime of experience with light, they shouldn’t be.“Depends,” they say, and closer, Jon hears the hitch in their breathing. Something’s wrong with them, and Jon really should leave them to whatever it is. “Can I have a cigarette?”(An AU where Jon meets Gerry while he's in uni)
Relationships: Gerard Keay/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: things will shortly get completely out of hand [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1996411
Comments: 231
Kudos: 571





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi!! I should probably not be starting another project but I am very excited about this one and can't stop myself, even if I feel deeply wrong writing a TMA fic that Martin is 100% absent from. The title's from Old College Try by the Mountain Goats. I hope you enjoy!

Jon lights a cigarette, hands shaking from the post-show adrenaline comedown, and looks up at the sky. Streetlights are blocking out the stars, but as he takes a desperate drag, he sort of wills himself to believe he can see them all the same. Better to focus his mind on inserting stars into the empty sky than to let it snag on and get ripped in half by things like finals, or the breakup.

Besides, he’s still got a bit of the D’ville in him, that ideal version of him that doesn’t have anything to care about, can be as vile and reckless and inconsiderate as Jon would desperately love to be sometimes. Which, well, he’s all of those things, but not in the right ways, not in the  _ fun _ ways, not in the ways that actually make people like him, and it’s not on purpose. He’d like to be awful on  _ purpose _ , for once.

That’s enough to start a thought spiral, and then he’s replaying the breakup in his mind, endlessly rewinding--could he have stopped it? Was there any single thing he could’ve said to change Georgie’s mind, to stop her making that face, those sad noises? 

His cigarette burns down and he lights another, starting to walk away from the club, shoulders raised against the cold night. He’s not sure where he’s going, because home isn’t this direction anymore, but there are people out on the street and he can’t just turn around like some fool who forgot where he lives, so he keeps walking. It’s not like the exercise can hurt, and most of his eye makeup washed off, so he only looks  _ mildly  _ like a deranged, semi-cannibalistic space pirate.

He tries to set his shitty, obsessive mind on something more productive than trying to game out a moment that’s already long over. Thinks about the show, but then he gets stuck on the brief second where he forgot his own lyrics, the part where he slammed straight into the keyboard, the bit where--it’s not any better, and he’s walking intensely enough that his femur is doing its thing where it feels like it just doesn’t quite fit into the hip socket right and every step hurts. 

He stops to vigorously rub his thigh in an attempt to make it stop hurting, and to light a third cigarette. Third time’s the charm, right?  _ Something _ has to make him feel better. 

The voice that comes from the alley he’s stood next to definitely doesn’t, though. 

“Can I get one of those?” it asks, and Jon startles so hard his lighter flies out of his hand and skips across the cobblestones towards the owner of the voice, who seems to be sitting on the ground, back against a damp, cold brick wall. They pick the lighter up and flick it on, idly, raising it up to their face, not quite illuminated enough for Jon to see them.

He thinks he should probably leave. He has a weird heavy falling feeling in his bones, in his marrow, a staticky itch, a numb, distant taste of copper on his tongue. It feels oddly familiar. Repressed memories flicker along with the lighter, as the person in the alley continues to play with it. 

He can buy a new lighter. He can turn around and leave and buy a new lighter. He can walk away and go home and lie in bed wondering what would’ve happened if he’d gone into the alley. He can--

It doesn’t matter what he could do, because his stiff legs are carrying him towards the person holding his lighter. 

“Can I have that back?” Jon asks, stupidly holding his hand out, like a child demanding candy. The person is still in shadow, even though he’s fairly certain that based on his lifetime of experience with light, they shouldn’t be.

“Depends,” they say, and closer, Jon hears the hitch in their breathing. Something’s wrong with them, and Jon really should leave them to whatever it is. “Can I have a cigarette?”

“You’re holding my lighter hostage?” Jon asks.

“Desperate times, desperate measures,” they say. 

Every muscle in Jon’s body is tensed and twitchy, ready to bolt, but he feels eerily calm as he reaches into the pack in his deep skirt pocket and slides one out, slowly handing it to the person on the ground like he’s feeding a wild animal.

In a quick flash, they light it and take a long drag, sighing and leaning back against the wall, and finally the shadow lifts--somewhat, somehow--enough for Jon to take them in. They’re young-looking, probably barely older than Jon, with a number of piercings Jon’s always been too anxious to get and long dark hair.

They exhale, slowly, near-rapturously, and wince as they shift their weight slightly. “Thank you,” they say, eyes closed, taking another drag and handing Jon’s lighter back to him.

“Are you alright?” Jon asks, because he’s curious now, and his curiosity doesn’t ever just stop, it burrows like a flesh-eating worm into his skin and consumes him whole. 

“Fine,” they say. “Appreciate the help.”

They aren’t fine. It becomes more obvious the longer Jon looks at them and the more the darkness seeps back to where it’s supposed to be. Their breathing is labored, though that’s hidden by the desperation with which they’re smoking, and their hand stays pressed over their side.

“You’re hurt,” Jon says, squinting. 

“I said I’m fine,” they say, and there’s a harsh edge to their tone. “You can go, mate, really, thanks for the fag.”

“I can call an ambulance, or--” Jon starts, but the person straightens somewhat and speaks with a great deal of intention and purpose.

“Leave. Now. For your own good,” they say, and Jon recoils a little. They’re right. He should go. Whatever they’re caught up in, Jon doesn’t need to be part of it. He has essays to write, and research to do, and endless thought vortexes to get lost in and consumed by, and parties to be invited to and then stay home in a panic from. He has a semblance of a life. 

He does hate that life, though, and besides, he’s not sure he can  _ make  _ himself leave. He feels rooted to the ground, like in those nightmares of being chased. Those nightmares, for him, always involve spiderweb wrapping his feet and ankles, the sound of--

He blinks and he’s crouching next to the person, who glares at him in concern and contempt with pain-dulled eyes. 

“Are you fucking stupid?” they ask.

“I think I must be,” Jon says.

They meet his eyes and squint, like they’re searching for something. “No, that’s not it. Would be a lot better for you if you were just an idiot.” 

“What does that--”

“Nothing you want explained, and nothing I’m really in the mood for.”

“What happened to you?” Jon asks.

“It really isn’t your business, and I guarantee you don’t want to know,” they say. 

“Are you dying? Because if--if you’re dying, I think I should--” 

“Don’t worry, mate, I’m not  _ allowed _ to die,” they say, baring their teeth in a crooked, oddly charming grimace. “Don’t you know? The good guys always win.”

They put the cigarette out on the ground next to them and push to their feet, hissing in pain, hand still pressed tight over their side. They try to support themself on the wall, but can’t make it one-handed, and Jon instinctually rises up to catch them as they stagger hard to the side. 

“Let me call an--” Jon starts, but they shove out of his hold.

“ _ No _ ,” they say. “I fucking told you I’m fine.”

Jon looks down at the spot on his chest where they reached out to push him and finds it bloodstained. “That’s what you consider fine?” he asks, voice surprisingly light considering how much he likes the shirt he’s wearing, and also, well, the more pressing aspects of the situation as well. 

“Sure is,” they say, stalking off, hunched over slightly but still moving rather quickly. Jon follows them. 

“What happened?”

“What happened is I wanted a fucking cigarette, not the third degree from some webbed-out asshole,” they say, whirling back around and nearly falling over again. They catch themself. Jon finally notices their clothing--a long-sleeved shirt for some band he’s never heard of, mesh fingerless gloves, leather leggings...it’s the sort of look Jon’s always wished he could pull off but never been able to, despite Georgie’s encouragement.

“What does that--”

“ _ Nothing _ . It means leave me alone. Please.” 

“No,” Jon says, stubbornly, because fuck this person for dragging him in at all if they were just going to violently push back and refuse help. Jon’s night is thoroughly off-course now, which tends to give him deep anxiety, but this feels  _ different _ . Like the start of something.

“ _ No _ ?”

“No,” Jon repeats. 

“So, what, you’re going to  _ follow _ me?” they ask. “Or--or what, you invite me back to yours for an intimate, homoerotic night of you gently cleaning my wounds and then fantasizing about the handsome stranger on your couch? What do you expect to happen here?”

“I don’t own a couch,” Jon says, absently, because he absolutely was idly imagining the second scenario, even if he didn’t realize it before they said it.

“Even more reason to  _ fuck. off _ .”

“Fine,” Jon says, stopping in his tracks, some sense finally catching up to him. This  _ is _ absurd, and he  _ is _ being sort of a freak, and--he stops to hate himself for long enough that the injured Goth is already far enough down the street that Jon couldn’t catch up to him easily even if he wanted to.

Jon limps back in the direction of his new, tiny, awful flat, his brain starting to poke at the encounter like an open wound, the way he does with everything. He desperately,  _ deeply _ wants to know what happened. Stabbed at a punk club? Or by a jealous lover? Or--

He could make up and play out any number of stories, but he also can’t shake that feeling of heavy, sinking inevitability that passed over him in the alley, like somehow, he was right where he was supposed to be. Like his life had finally intersected with the path laid for him and abandoned.

Fantastic. Really, he  _ needed _ something new to obsess and wonder about. Because the rest of it wasn’t enough.   
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhhhhh you guys are so nice!!! I really...didn't mean to write another chapter of this so soon but I couldn't stop myself. I hope you enjoy!

Finals come and go and Jon somehow gets through them. Things get bad enough for a bit that he’s occasionally genuinely surprised that he can keep going, that his body has enough autonomy to keep him moving and working even when his brain has completely and totally checked out. During one of his finals, he’s fairly certain he was thinking about the implications of corvids’ ability to hold grudges potentially extending to other animals the entire time because he’d made the mistake of reading an article before going in, but he somehow came out the other end of it.

He also thinks, quite often, and at some length, about the person bleeding in the alley. Some moments just feel like inflection points, and he’s certain, after spending several nights straight thinking about it rather than sleeping, that that was one. Something that could’ve altered his life entirely in unforeseen directions. And he walked away from it.

He’s not sure where the certainty comes from. Possibly just his tendency to get carried away in fantasies, which he likes to pretend he doesn’t do, but he did used to imagine proposing to Georgie, or becoming a legitimately famous musician, or--nice, safe fantasies, though, the kind everyone has. He doesn’t let himself get swept up in conspiracy theories, or paranormal bullshit, because if he lets that into his mind, even just a crack, he knows it’ll swallow him into some gaping, bottomless delusion, like when he was a kid.

But he thinks about the injured Goth. Wonders if they survived, or if they dropped dead on the street somewhere and Jon’s a murderer because he listened to them and didn’t just call an ambulance. It makes him sick with guilt when he thinks about it too hard, but he can’t drown out the guilt because he has to do well in school, because he has to keep his scholarship, because he can’t be a burden to his grandmother in any way.

He smokes a frankly absurd and dangerous amount, but it’s the only way he can quiet his anxiety, stop his body’s endless rote motion, calm himself down even a little. After his last essay of the term is turned in and done with, he decides that fuck it, he can’t keep feeling like this forever, and he’s young (so he’s heard, but fuck, he’s felt ancient since he was twelve), and young people go out and have reckless fun and don’t think endlessly and pointlessly about consequences.

He tries to go to a pub, but it’s so overfull of wasted students celebrating their temporary freedom that he can’t breathe, and to top it off, he sees Georgie among them and he’d like to not break his streak of avoiding her for his own sanity. The second his eyes land on her, a thousand different possible conversations flood and overwhelm his mind, and none of them end particularly well.

And besides, she looks happy. There is no doubt in his mind that speaking to her would change that, and he feels guilty about enough already. So he drinks until he doesn’t feel the need to chase his trains of thought down like an outlaw and he can just let them go unbothered, and then he drinks more, because there’s always a curiosity in him, deep and hungry, to see how far he can push himself on any given thing.

He speaks to no one but the bartender, and when he finally convinces himself that he’s too fucked up to stay here and the walls feel like they're closing in, he reels out onto the sidewalk and numbly lights a cigarette, leaning against the wall to keep himself upright.

He's not particularly looking at anything, just letting the streetlights blur in his vision, and his brain starts to get a bit desperate for stimulation, even though he'd be perfectly happy to keep thinking about approximately nothing. His mind drifts back to the alley. The way he'd walked towards the person like he hadn't had a choice, like he was being  _ pulled _ by something. It was a sickeningly familiar feeling, calling back memories he'd struggled to convince himself weren't real for over a decade, memories of spiderwebs and that nauseating book. 

The thought of it makes him ill, the world starting to blur and spin quickly around him, and he manages to at least lurch forward and support himself on a lamppost before he vomits in the gutter. He stands there for a moment, arms wrapped around the pole, breathing heavily and trying not to hate himself for being this much of a mess in public, and the moment turns into several minutes, and his mind is blank but he starts crying anyway, without any idea why. 

There's a hand on his back, and he turns, quickly, half-expecting it to be Georgie, or maybe some acquaintance from class, but it's--well, he's drunk, it might be a different Goth, he can't say all Goths look the same. It's almost definitely not the person from the alley, but the hair and piercings look the same. 

They squint back at Jon when they see his face, trying to place him. “You alright, mate?”

“Yes,” Jon says, automatically, because he doesn't really care about himself anymore right now. “Were you--”

“Oh, shit, that  _ was  _ you,” they say. “Look, uh, sorry for bleeding on your shirt and yelling at you. Hope your night gets better.”

They start to leave, but Jon impulsively reaches out to grab their wrist. He has to  _ know _ , he can't let them go a second time without them telling him what happened. They sharply jerk out of his grasp, anger flashing in their eyes. 

“I think about you a lot,” Jon says. While objectively true, it's not quite what he means. Thought-to-speech is a tricky neural pathway at present. 

“Weird,” they say. “And also not my problem.”

“Tell me what happened,” Jon says, trying to keep up as they stalk off. He's still quite unsteady, but he at least can't feel the pain in his bad leg like this. They're also in high-heeled boots and a long dress, which seems to be slowing them down a bit. 

“No,” they say. “Leave me alone.”

“No,” Jon replies, stubbornly. “Tell me.”

“Fuck, no good deed, huh?” they ask, throwing their hands up and not slowing down. “Can't even try and do a nice thing for a pretty drunk kid without it turning back into being about  _ them _ .”

Jon gets the sense they're not talking to him, but presses on anyway, ignoring the ‘pretty’ comment because it's useless information. “Them?”

“You are...goddamned insufferable.” 

“So I've heard,” Jon says. 

“Fine,” they say, stopping dead in their tracks. Jon skids to a stop as well and has to quickly stagger a few steps to stay upright. They turn to him and brush hair behind their (predictably) industrially-pierced ear. “Got bit by a creature made of pure darkness. Less fun than it sounds.” Their voice is flat, like they’re explaining why they’re late for class, rather than--they have to be bullshitting, avoiding telling the truth. 

Jon scoffs. “Right.” He’s glad he sounds so confidently skeptical, because something about the alcohol and the cold air blowing through his coat almost makes him want to take them at their word.

They shrug, raise their eyebrows, and keep walking. “Not my fault if you don’t believe me. Why do you need to know so fucking bad anyway?”

“Because I thought I’d killed you through inaction, and--I don’t know. I don’t know. I’d rather--I like to have information available, I’m--” Jon shrugs, suddenly unable to stop the words from pouring out of him. He’s barely spoken to anyone in weeks and social boundaries don’t currently exist. “There’s an explanation for everything, so why should anyone ever be left wondering--I mean, there’s an object--objective truth, and--”

This would probably be less embarrassing if he could articulate what he means literally at all, or if he could actually figure out what he means.

They look at him with something dangerously close to pity. “Uh. Okay. I was...stabbed. Let’s say. By...a...cop. Who thought I was...an arsonist?” They look like they’re playing mental Mad-Libs. “I mean, I am a bit of an arsonist, I guess.”

“Stabbed by a cop.”

“I told you the truth the first time, mate, thought I’d try to make it more palatable for you,” they say, and then stop short again. “Look, not that I care, but are you gonna be able to get home alright? I’m not in the business of letting people get hurt if I’m not the one doing the hurting.” They grimace after saying that, like they thought it was going to come out much cooler than it did.

“I don’t know,” Jon says, a little pathetically. “I’ll be fine.”

They sigh. “Okay, nope, which way d’you live. Let’s go.”

“No,” Jon says. “You didn’t let me help, you don’t get to help.”

“Alright, to be fair,  _ very _ different situations there, mate.”

“No!” Jon says, petulantly, a smirk flickering at his lips as he cheerily tells them to “Fuck off!”

“Okay, sure, glad you’re happy with yourself, but I refuse,” they say.

“I could scream.”

“Right. Yes. Because bystanders will definitely buy that  _ I’m _ a threat to you.” They cross their arms. 

“If you’re taking me home you could at least tell me your name,” Jon says, sighing in resignation. 

“I could,” they say. “Which way are we going?”

Jon points, and they loop a thin arm through his, semi-supporting him and gently pulling him that direction. “I’m Jon,” he says. 

“That’s great for you.”

“And you are…?”

“Not interested in giving you personal info,” they say. “How far are we?”

“So you get to know where I live and I don't even get to know your  _ name _ ?” Jon asks. 

“Your cognition is truly unparalleled.” 

They walk in silence, and Jon’s mind stutters and crackles and rewinds like an ancient tape recorder, scrubbing their conversation so far for things to obsess on. The obvious one is the creature of pure darkness, sure, but if Jon starts believing even a little that it’s real then everything in his world will shatter, so he should tactfully avoid it--except drunk, it’s like a cut in his mouth he can’t stop tonguing, and it’s not as if he’s ever been a master of self-preservation.

“The thing that bit you…” Jon says, finally, and they laugh. 

“Was wondering how long it would take you to cave. Don’t worry about it. It’s  _ not real _ . Don’t want you to lose sleep or run up your electricity bill keeping the lights on or anything,” they say, then, after a brief pause, “Not that that would stop it.”

A small shudder runs through Jon, and it leads into a full spasm that rocks his body. They look at him and raise an eyebrow. “Sorry,” Jon says. “Spine shiver.”

They laugh, softly. “Yeah, I’m familiar.”

“If it wasn’t real, then what was it?” Jon asks, thinking about--well, things he’s not supposed to think about. Things that  _ weren’t real _ , and yet.

“Great question.”

“Are you a student?” Jon blurts, suddenly curious to know more about them, beyond the name they’ve refused to give.

“No,” they say. “You never said how far--”

“Am I really that unpleasant?” Jon asks, and he means it to be charming self-deprecation, but it comes out like a sad, childish plea for affection. He clears his throat and quickly tries to pretend it didn’t happen. “Um. I mean, it’s--uh--I’m--it’s a few blocks.”

“You’re not unpleasant,” they say. “Wouldn’t say you’re pleasant either. Net neutral.”

“Well, same to you,” Jon says, and they laugh, their shoulder bumping Jon’s. “I’m, uh--glad you didn’t die.”

“Hell of a thing to keep on your conscience,” they say. “Sorry about that.”

“It’s...fine,” Jon says. “Everything sort of sticks on my conscience, it’s not really your fault.”

“Sounds miserable.”

“It is,” Jon says, laughing breathlessly and staggering a few steps into them, but they’re stronger than he expected and they take his weight easily.

“Easy, tiger,” they say, half-smiling. “So, what were you drowning out tonight?”

“Why do you assume--”

“Unless you’re an alcoholic, which some part of me doubts considering your whole  _ thing _ , most people don’t drink this much just for kicks.”

“What if I was celebrating?”

“Were you?”

“Why do you care?” Jon asks.

“I don’t, really,” they say. “Making conversation. Maybe you  _ are _ unpleasant.”

“Maybe I am,” Jon says, irritated. “Look, this is it.”

They stop in front of Jon’s building and sigh as they pull their arm out from his. “You’re gonna make it in okay?”

“Yes,” Jon says. “I’m not a child.”

“We even now?” they ask, crossing their arms. “We can stop meeting like this?”

“Unless we’re all just being cosmically puppeted into some fixed narrative, yes, hopefully.” 

“Okay,” they say. “Well. Thanks, Jon.”

They start to leave, and Jon’s mind wanders quickly to his spare, empty bedroom, and he can’t help himself from calling out. “Wait!”

They turn. “Yeah?”

“You, uh--” Jon starts, reaching desperately into his coat pocket. “You want a smoke?”

They genuinely smile for a moment, but it fades quickly. “No, uh, I--I should go. Thanks, though.” They bite their lip and tilt their head up to the sky for a moment, then back down. “And it’s Gerard. Uh. Gerry.”

Jon watches them turn to leave again before going into his building. He nearly kills himself on the stairs, but at least once he makes it to his flat, his brain is uncharacteristically quiet. He starts falling asleep almost instantly, until he realizes how dark it is in his room.

Monsters made of darkness aren’t real. Mr. Spider wasn’t real. He’s safe from everything but the shit his mind creates to torment him with. It takes hours for him to make enough peace with the crushing darkness to fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure they won't meet again. Absolutely Positive.
> 
> Thank you for reading<3


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot stay away from this fic I'm enjoying writing it So Much. Is this chapter basically Pageturner but different + Jon Bad Times Simulator? Sure, but. Shut up. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> (Oh, also I tried something with Gerry's pronouns this chapter--if it's too confusing please let me know and I'll stop doing it.)

Classes start again in three days, and Jon hasn’t  _ really _ slept in weeks, aside from a few hours here and there, because something’s watching him. 

He knows it’s paranoia, it’s a delusion, his mind turning on him again, it has to be. But it’s a strong, unshakeable feeling that he can’t drown with nicotine, alcohol, or tranquilizers, no matter how hard he tries. Sometimes, for brief moments, the nagging, tingly itch at the base of his neck fades, and he finally feels he’s alone again, but as soon as he lets himself be cautiously relieved, it starts again.

It’s drilling through him, leaving him shaky, nervous, twitchy. When he goes out in public, which has been increasingly rare, he can’t help but look over his shoulder constantly, genuinely hoping to find someone staring so he can at least justify the feeling.

He’s never alone, never comfortable, never safe. Bites his nails down below the beds, keeps himself awake with caffeine and prescription amphetamines, develops a new and uncharacteristic fear of the dark. After weeks of this, he’s at the end of his fucking rope, ready to tear his skin off.

He should talk to someone, but they’d commit him, and if he’s in hospital, he can’t be in school, and then everything falls apart. He doesn’t have friends to ask for help. He’s sure that if he called Georgie, she would be there for him, but he’s not going to do that to her, not again, so he holds it all in. 

His mind isn’t his own anymore, not really, he gave it over to sleeplessness and stimulants and paranoia a while ago. He’s barely surprised when the thought of looking for the book that ruined his life crosses flickers on like a fluorescent light he can’t find the switch for. It’s always there, always on, always burning, and eventually he gives in.

He’s always tried not to remember the book, for all the good it’s done him. It doesn’t take much effort.  _ A Guest for Mr. Spider _ . Googling that yields nothing useful, and he almost lets that be enough. Almost gives up. But whatever’s watching him--whatever’s tricking his weak fucking mind into believing he’s being watched--only stares more intently, and he can’t stop. He has to prove it was real. He can’t believe he’s never tried before.

There wasn’t an author to speak of, but he remembers--there was a name. A bookplate. 

It comes to him, after a solid few minutes of staring holes through his desk, exhaustion pulsing through his body.  _ Jurgen Leitner _ . He finds a recent eBay listing when he looks up the name, and sick excitement pounds at his chest. Some part of it was real. 

It takes hours of obsessive research and messaging the person selling the book on eBay to find anything else to do with him. A book collector, or binder, or--commissioner, maybe, it’s hard to say, but the books known to be associated with him are esoteric, eclectic, little to no common threads between them. And no one seems to have heard of  _ Mr. Spider _ , which keeps cold panic ricocheting through Jon’s stomach. It must be real, because he doesn’t know how else he would know the name of a Scandinavian...book-man...but the lack of evidence makes him second-guess himself.

Either way, there seems to only be one thing he can follow up with. A bookstore in Morden that Leitner allegedly dealt with back in the day called Pinhole Books.

Jon’s in no fit state to make a journey that long. It’s two hours at a minimum, and he’s not sure he can handle the uncomfortable seats of public transit, people’s eyes on him as he twitches like the sort of person you cross the street to avoid at night. But he also has to see, he’s all-consumed by the need to find out, to prove to himself that he’s been sane and in control this whole time, so he can maybe start to deal with whatever’s watching him for long enough to make it through the next term at the very least.

So he forces himself onto a bus and hugs his legs and stares out the window, earbuds in with nothing playing to dissuade anyone from trying to talk to him. He’s so tensed his shoulders start burning, and he tries not to look back at the inside of the bus, because he knows there’s nothing there watching him.

The second he finally makes it to Morden, he chainsmokes two cigarettes to calm himself down even remotely enough to consider interacting with a human, and walks to the address he wrote on his arm. Pinhole Books is small, unimposing. A dark door with a plaque that says its name and ‘By appointment only’, which...Jon didn’t realize bookstores could  _ be _ by appointment only, and he definitely doesn’t have an appointment, but it was a Herculean effort to get here and he’s not fucking going back yet.

So he rings the doorbell and hugs himself and rubs a thread on the inside of his sweater between his fingers, trying not to look over his shoulder. He waits about two minutes before a woman opens the door, and Jon tries not to yelp in surprise at her appearance.

She’s bald, old, and tattooed all over in a dead language that Jon thinks is probably Sanskrit, based on the time in his teens he got deeply into Hindu mythology and tried to read texts as written. It didn’t work particularly well, and he got frustrated and gave up, but it’s still a distinctive enough script for him to recognize it.

“I don’t have any appointments today,” she says, not particularly kindly, and in fact her voice sends a shiver down Jon’s spine. He straightens under her gaze, which somehow reminds him of his grandmother’s. 

“I--uh--is there any chance I could speak to you anyway?” Jon asks. “Assuming--assuming you own the store, that is.”

“I do. Why are you here?”

“Jurgen Leitner,” Jon says, and her eyebrows raise, dark eyes lighting up. 

“Do you have one?” she asks, cautiously.

“Uh, no--no, I--I’m looking for one,” Jon says. 

“I don’t sell Leitners. Hard enough to find them these days as is,” she says. “You’d best look elsewhere.”

“I don’t want to buy it, I just need to see it,” Jon blurts. “If you have it. To--to know it’s real.”

She laughs at that, a little wickedly, but steps aside to let him in. “I understand that, certainly.” She closes the door behind him before quickly overtaking him, leading him through stacks of very old-looking books that Jon itches to look through, but he tries to stay focused. “What’s the name of your Leitner?”

Jon stutters on it. He’s never said it out loud, not even when it happened to him--though, to be fair, he didn’t speak for weeks after it happened to him, couldn’t find the words and didn’t even try. “A--A Guest for Mr. Spider.”

“I’ve not heard of that one,” she says, turning to him with luminous, hungry eyes, visibly fascinated.

“It’s, a, uh--a children’s book, it’s...well, terrifying,” Jon says, then laughs nervously, unsure of how to deal with the intensity of her gaze. “So you--you don’t have it, then?”

“No,” she says. 

“Right, uh, sorry for--for wasting your time, I--” Jon starts, starting to turn back for the door, suddenly desperate to leave, scared of this arcane woman and the interest in her stare.

“That’s alright, dear,” she says, and the word ‘dear’ sounds so unnatural coming out of her mouth that it almost seems like a physical effort to say. “Why don’t you sit down? I’d like to hear about it. I can have my son make tea.”

“Uh…” Jon starts, scratching his neck desperately. “No, I should--” 

There’s thudding down the stairs in the back of the building, and a voice calling “Mary, who the fuck are you talking to?” and then, somehow, inexplicably, Gerry The Hot Weird Goth emerges. They lock eyes with Jon, and laugh incredulously. “ _ You _ ? Are you stalking me? What is this? What--why are you  _ here _ ?”

Jon’s having a hard time believing this himself, and thinks maybe he’s snapped, because between Gerry and the scary old tattooed lady, this all seems a bit...unreal. “I--why are  _ you _ here?”

“I...live here,” Gerry says. “That’s my mother.”

“That-- _ what _ ?” Jon asks, looking back at the old lady--Mary, apparently. 

“And how do you two know each other?” she asks, sounding deeply bored of the question as she’s asking it.

“None of your fucking business,” Gerry says. “Answer me, Jon.”

“I’m looking for a book,” Jon says, shrugging helplessly, and Gerry growls in his throat and stalks over to Jon, grabbing him by the elbow and dragging him back out through the maze of shelves and onto the street. 

“You can’t be here,” Gerry says. 

“I...what?”

“Even if you are actually looking for a book, fucking do it elsewhere,” Gerry says. “She’s--it’s--this isn’t a place for  _ you _ . Not really a place for anyone.”

“Why don’t you believe that I’m--”

“Because it’s a little weird for the guy I’ve already run into twice by ‘random chance’,” Gerry says, complete with airquotes, “to show up at my psychopathic mother’s evil bookstore.”

“I completely agree,” Jon says. “But I’m losing my mind and I need...I need--” He sighs and shakes his head, pressing a hand to his forehead. “I need to know.”

“What do you mean, losing your mind?” Gerry asks, cocking their head cautiously, giving Jon an inscrutable but maybe slightly concerned look.

Jon shrugs again, reaching into his coat pocket for a cigarette and lighting it. “It’s not really any of your business.”

“You’re right,” Gerry says. “But finding the book would help?”

“It would be a start,” Jon says, smoke spilling out with the words. 

“And it’s a Leitner?”

“Yes. I think so.”

“Fine,” Gerry says, sighing. “Title?”

“A Guest for Mr. Spider,” Jon says, and the words still taste heavy and wrong on his tongue, strange to say out loud after so, so long. 

“A Web one, then,” Gerry says, whistling and pulling her hair back with a hand before letting it go. “I don’t like Web ones. But fine.”

“Web?” Jon asks, cocking his head, curious.

“Don’t worry about it,” Gerry says, waving a hand. “Where and when did you last see it?”

“Uh--um, 1995 in--in Bournemouth,” Jon says, and Gerry blows air through his nostrils and smirks at the ground, shaking their head.

“Not making it easy, are you?” Gerry asks. “Well, if it’s a Web one, it’ll come to me if it’s meant to, I guess I don’t have to look too hard.”

“I don’t know what that means,” Jon says.

“Nothing. Doesn’t mean anything. It means I’m going to find your book,” Gerry says.

“Oh,” Jon says, blinking in surprise. “That’s...you don’t have to... _ why _ ?”

“Because I want to help you not lose your mind, since I dragged you into this, and because I really,  _ really _ hate Jurgen Leitner,” Gerry says, crossing her arms. “Like.  _ Really _ hate.”

“Why?” Jon asks, and Gerry laughs.

“How long do you have?” he asks, with a genuine, if sarcastic smile. “Look, I’ll find it, I’ll prove to you it exists, but then I get to burn it.”

“I would love nothing more,” Jon says, laughing humorlessly. “I’d like to burn it with you.”

“I’m sure you would, but that’s not...I think...you should stay away. From here. From me,” Gerry says. “Might be too late already, but it can’t hurt to be safe.”

“You don’t seem particularly dangerous,” Jon says.

“Yeah, well, if you have an experience with a Leitner, I think you’d know that saying about not judging books better than most. Besides, I didn’t say  _ I _ was dangerous.”

“I don’t think things can get much worse for me,” Jon says, not really meaning to be that honest, but it comes out of him anyway, the exhaustion shattering any social barriers he might’ve had. 

“That bad?” Gerry asks, and Jon nods, slowly, laughing again, a little hysterically this time. He presses a hand over his mouth to stop it turning into anything else. “I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s...it’s fine, it’s just my fucking brain,” Jon says. “The book--I know it won’t fix anything, I just...I’d like to know it exists. It doesn’t mean that what happened with it was real, but…” He sighs and takes a long drag.

Gerry raises their eyebrows. “So are you gonna  _ tell _ me? Or am I just supposed to guess.”

“I thought I was supposed to stay away from you.”

“Well…” Gerry sighs. “You came all the way out here, you might as well hang around for a bit. Wanna get a drink?”

“God, please.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I continue to be overwhelmed by the response to this fic, I love writing it and it makes me happy that you guys seem to like reading it! I will say, I wrote half of this chapter at work and the other half high so...we'll, uh, we'll see if it works. Hope you enjoy!

“Are you ever going to tell me why you hate lightning?” Jon asks, pulling the bottle out of Gerry’s hand, knee up to his chin. ‘Get a drink’, to Gerry, apparently meant ‘buy cheap awful rum and sit in the park getting daydrunk in public’, and it’s not as if Jon cares enough to protest that by this point. Anything that shuts his brain up even a little is alright by him.

And besides, this is almost...fun?

“Lightning?” Gerry asks, squinting at Jon, chin twitching like they’re about to burst out laughing. “I don’t hate lightning. It’s pretty.”

“No--no, I mean--lightning--”

“You are a  _ mad _ lightweight, aren’t you?” 

“ _ Leitner _ ,” Jon finally manages, snapping his fingers. “I’m not a lightweight, I’m just bad at--uh-- Scandinavian names.”

“No, you’re definitely a lightweight.” Gerry smirks as Jon sticks his tongue out at her before taking a long swig. “Look, I can’t really...I hate Jurgen Leitner, like, fucking  _ desperately _ , but I can’t really tell you why.”

“I hate him for absolutely shattering my hold on reality,” Jon says, rather matter-of-fact, drinking again and trying not to gag on it. Gerry gently pulls the bottle back away from him. 

“Yeah, he...does that,” Gerry says. “Or.  _ He  _ doesn’t, but.”

“I know I’m just...you know,  _ sick _ , but. Sometimes I wonder, if I hadn’t found that book, if…” Jon shrugs.

“You seem like you wanna talk about it,” Gerry says, crossing his arms and leaning back. “You can. I mean, I’m sort of sick of horror stories, but if you need to get it off your chest, I promise I’ll believe you.”

“No, it’s...it’s not  _ real _ , and I’d rather--I would rather hear about you,” Jon says. 

“What about me?” Gerry asks. “And if you ask one more time why I hate that old bitch, I’m leaving.”

“Why is your mum, um…” Jon starts, looking for a tactful way to phrase the rest of the question. “Uh...why is she…”

“A bald tattooed psychotic nightmare?” Gerry finishes, batting their eyelashes in mock-innocence and drinking deep. “She’s actually dead and soulbound to a book made of human flesh. Does things to a person.”

Gerry’s sense of humor is the oddest Jon’s ever experienced, down to the completely nonchalant delivery, and he doesn’t know whether to laugh or not, so he sort of chokes on an indeterminate squeaking noise.

“No, but really,” Jon says, when Gerry doesn’t add anything else.

“What, your mum never asked you to help skin her alive?” Gerry asks, scratching her face. “You’re so sheltered.”

“My mum’s dead,” Jon says, bluntly, because maybe he is a lightweight. Gerry nods, making the ‘I regret everything’ face most people make when Jon mentions his parents

“So’s my dad,” Gerry says, shrugging. “Never really knew him.”

“Mine too,” Jon says, full of fake cheer. He holds up his hand and Gerry knocks the bottle against his knuckles. “Cheers.”

“Wow, an orphan! You’re a regular Harry Potter,” Gerry says, and Jon snorts. 

“Instead of magic, I have trauma,” he says, and Gerry smiles. 

“Who raised you?” they ask, looking genuinely curious.

“My grandmother,” Jon says. “She’s…” He can’t think of an adjective to describe her. Every word in the English language seems too strong. She’s too passive to be cruel, too tired to be kind. She’s nothing, really, and he should be grateful for that. It’s better than whatever caused Gerry’s violent opposition to his mum, probably. He just shrugs, and that seems to be enough for Gerry.

“Got it,” he says. “Is there anything else you want to know about me? I  _ am _ fascinating.”

“You’re not going to answer honestly even if I ask,” Jon says, and Gerry laughs, tilting her head back and folding their hands over their mouth. “What?”

“No, nothing, it’s...nothing,” Gerry says. “Aren’t my answers  _ fun _ though?”

“Darkness monsters and flesh books?” Jon asks, then strokes his chin in mock consideration. “Not sure about  _ fun _ .”

“Truth is stranger than fiction, mate,” Gerry says. “I bet whatever fucked you up as a kid was real.”

“Mr. Spider isn’t real,” Jon spits back, instinctively. “It  _ can’t _ be. That kid just died, and--and my mind just filled it in with that book.”

“Right. Sure. Human brain’s  _ quite  _ powerful. Would do anything to protect you,” Gerry says, nodding along, but adopting a posh accent that clearly indicates he’s taking the piss, before dropping it. “Come on, Jon. Occam’s Razor.”

“Don’t ‘Occam’s Razor’ me, there’s--I mean, I was  _ evaluated _ \--”

“Sure,” Gerry says, throwing her hands up. “Look, I’m not going to fight you. You believe what you believe, and it’s probably better and safer for you to keep believing it was just your brain curling up and playing pretend under its bed.”

“What’s so fucking  _ unsafe _ about you?” Jon snarls, a level of viciousness he wasn’t expecting from himself. “You keep saying it’s best for me to stay away-- _ why _ ? Give me a straight answer, because I’m--” He cuts himself off for a ragged, rattling breath, shaking his head and running both hands through his hair.

Gerry offers him the bottle, sighing, and he drinks gratefully. “I’m not fucking around. It  _ is _ dangerous, and you have issues dealing with reality as is, it seems.”

“What does that even mean? Is your mum some kind of cultist? I mean--”

Gerry cuts Jon off by laughing again, harder this time. “Sort of! That’s not far off, actually.”

“Are you a criminal?”

Gerry cocks her head. “Now, that’s a question. I have  _ definitely _ broken laws, but I can’t say I’m too worried about cops.” They put a finger up. “Well,  _ most _ cops.”

“Why can’t you just be fucking  _ direct _ ?” Jon asks. 

“You wouldn’t believe me, and I wouldn’t want you to.”

“This keeps going in circles,” Jon says, massaging his temples and standing up, pitching hard and supporting himself on the railing of the bench. “Thanks for the drink.”

Gerry hisses through his teeth and pulls his hair back. “No, fine, sit back down.”

“Why?” Jon asks. “I could confuse and scare myself perfectly fine on my own.”

Gerry smirks, shit-eating and a little vicious. “I’m sure you could, but that’s no fun.”

Jon falls back into the bench with a sigh. “Fine. Then tell me why I’m supposed to be afraid of you.”

Gerry blows a piece of hair out of her face and sighs, making oddly disarming eye contact with Jon. “I’ve fucked with some very, very powerful entities.”

“Are you...a hacker?” Jon asks, willfully obtuse, because he would love it to be a logical explanation and not the one he thinks Gerry’s about to give.

“A…” Gerry shakes his head and laughs. “No, but ‘90s hacker movie’ is definitely the look I’m going for.”

“Then what? Fucking...corporate espionage? Bank robbery? What--”

“Jon, we both know you know,” Gerry says, getting softer as Jon gets louder. “Don’t make me explain it. I hate explaining it.”

“If it’s real--the monster and Mr. Spider and your mum being dead, if all of it’s real--” Jon says, clenching a hand into his ponytail and pulling on it. “Prove it.”

“Prove…?” Gerry says, snorting. “How, exactly, am I supposed to do that?”

“Show me the flesh book,” Jon says. “Or the monster. Or anything. Just show me that it’s real.”

“Jon, if I fuck with them and you’re there, you’ll never really be out of this,” Gerry says. “There’s no going back. I’m serious.”

“I don’t think I can go back anyway,” Jon says. “Whatever they are, they know me already. I’ll never--I mean, I’ll  _ never _ be free of--” 

The day he read that book is a negative space in his memory. He has the outline of it, but the details are largely absent. But now he blinks and sees web and darkness and spindly legs and it nearly chokes him.

Gerry puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes. “See, that’s the kind of thing I want to keep you away from. The shit where just remembering it freezes you solid.”

“Well, it’s too late,” Jon says. “I don’t think it can get much worse.”

“You have school, though, right?”

“If I’m honest, if things keep going like this I’m probably going to die in the next few months, so my grades won’t matter anymore,” Jon says. “It’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

“You  _ have _ to know?”

“Yes,” Jon says, laughing incredulously. “Yes. I do. I have--I  _ have _ to know. Yes.”

“Okay.” Gerry sighs. “Okay. Sure. Fine. I don’t like this, but I’ll take you hunting. I have a new lead.”

“Hunting?”

“Hunting,” Gerry repeats, a wicked smirk spreading across their face. “How are you with light arson? You look like you could be the kind of person that cries at a burning book.”

“Fuck off,” Jon says, and Gerry laughs, sort of throatily, and something in Jon’s guts twinge a little at the sound. 

“I do like you, Jon, there’s a chance you won’t be shit at this,” she says. “Just--you have to be sure.”

“I’m sure.”

“Okay,” Gerry says. “I’ll need your number, then. Unless you want me showing up unannounced.”

“You remember where I live?” Jon asks, squinting, and Gerry snorts.

“Fuck, no. We just seem to be unable to stay away from each other.”

“Then you don’t need my number,” Jon says, raising an eyebrow.

“ _ Wow _ , what’s a Goth gotta do?” Gerry asks, smirking again. “Wasn’t a pickup tactic, dipshit, I’m trying to give you what you want here.”

“Sounds like a pickup tactic.”

“How’s this, then: I think you’re hot and weird and intense and I couldn’t count on one hand all the things I’d want to do to you,” Gerry says, and Jon blinks, startled, unsure if they’re being serious or not. “I can be direct if I want. I genuinely asked for your number for convenience’s sake.”

“Wait, but do you actually--” Jon manages.

“I was making a point,” Gerry says. “Look, you can give it to me later, I’m not letting you go home in this state.”

“What, so I get to stay at your  _ creepy _ bookstore with your sort-of cultist mother?” Jon asks.

“Hey, you’re the one who chose to get wasted.”

“You’re something, aren’t you,” Jon says, smiling a little incredulously.

“You hang around with bad influences, you make bad choices, you suffer consequences,” Gerry says, yawning. “I’m consequences.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading <3


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanna say thanks everyone for reading!! I really love writing this fic and am really excited for the next chapter and I hope everyone's continuing to enjoy it <3

Gerry hasn’t called Jon yet, and the strange, wasted night he spent in their childhood bedroom starts to feel like another life, or like it didn’t even happen at all, even though it was just two weeks ago.

Classes are easily ten times more difficult than ever before. Jon can’t concentrate on anything. His mind drifts to Pinhole Books, to Gerry’s mother and her frightening, dead eyes, to Gerry themself. He finds himself thinking about Gerry a lot more than he’d like, picturing her laughing as she half-dragged him up the stairs to her room, the smell of old books and cheap scented candles and stale blood settled in the floorboards and her hair. 

It’s not a  _ crush _ , just a fascination. Not that he really does crushes. He went from only knowing Georgie through class discussions to deciding he wanted to raise a cat with her within about two minutes of listening to her talk about culture-bound illnesses and psychological, possibly paranormal, plagues.

His interest in Gerry is mostly because Gerry’s just...interesting. They have an interesting life, miles beyond anything Jon could’ve dreamed of for himself, and it’s hard not to linger on. He tries not to be bitter that Gerry hasn’t called.Tries not to think that maybe Gerry decided in the end that he’s too much of a liability and went on with their life without him.

He probably  _ is _ a liability. Isn’t even sure he could handle a second real supernatural encounter head-on without shattering completely. But he’d rather shatter enough to need repair than keep going how he is now, cracked in dozens of places and barely holding together. 

It’s been two weeks since Jon woke up hungover and completely hollowed-out in Morden, two weeks since Gerry forced awful homebrewed black coffee on him and walked him to the bus stop and asked him at least five times if he was sure he’d make it back alright. 

Maybe the whole thing only felt like it meant something because of the excessive drinking. Maybe the cheap alcohol was the only reason Gerry agreed to take him... _ hunting _ . Jon still isn’t sure quite what that means. He thinks Gerry started telling stories about it, but he was close to blacked-out, and she wasn’t all that coherent herself, so the half-memories don’t particularly matter.

He wants to know, though, still. Insatiable as ever. He tries to focus the hunger on his actual schoolwork, but Russian history and essays on mimesis and logical proofs all just feel so fucking useless and dull and worthless in the face of knowing--well,  _ believing _ \--that there’s another layer to the world.

So he barely does the minimum he needs to get by, and spends the rest of his time still just trying to drown out the feeling of being watched. Gets stoned and watches pseudo-fringe-science documentaries like he used to do with Georgie, but it’s sort of pathetic alone and he always shuts them off less than halfway through. Usually ends up tranquilizing himself and lying on his side in bed and trying to just forget enough that he can breathe normally again.

Gerry calls him in the middle of one of his longer, more boring night classes, and Jon bolts out of the lecture hall so quickly he nearly breaks his face on a desk, grabbing his bag and sprinting out into the cold night. He barely picks up before it stops ringing.

“Where the fuck have  _ you _ been?” he asks, breathlessly, expecting Gerry to laugh.

“Busy,” he says, darkly, voice staticky on the other end of the line. “Look, you still in for hunting?”

“Yes,” Jon says, too quickly, leaning against the wall of the building. “When?”

“Uh. How’s now sound. I know it’s last minute but something came up and I didn’t have a chance and I wanna get to this one before someone else does. Assuming they haven’t already. I’m in Oxford, where should I meet you?” Gerry asks.

“Are you alright?” Jon asks, and Gerry laughs breathlessly.

“Yeah. Sure. Where do you want to meet.”

Jon gives him the name of a pub a few blocks away from him and heads over, heart pounding in anticipation, adrenaline going hard enough he barely notices the everpresent, ever-invisible eyes itching the back of his neck.

He lights a cigarette, leans on the wall, and waits, preemptively massaging his hip joint in hopes it won’t act up tonight of all nights. Gerry shows up after about fifteen minutes looking worse than Jon’s seen him, in a black sweatshirt and jeans, eyebags dark and heavy, with long, thin scratches like clawmarks across their face.

“Hey,” they say, voice a little hoarse, and Jon gives a small, startled wave.   


“You don’t look--” Jon starts, and their eyes flash dark.

“Given the state you’re in, I wouldn’t say shit,” she says, and Jon nods, shutting his mouth and raising his eyebrows.

“Noted,” he says. “So, what--where are we going? What are we--”

“There’s an apartment building,” Gerry says, beckoning for a cigarette with his index finger and putting it between their lips, leaning in and letting Jon light it before starting off down the street. “Not a far walk from here.”

“And...what’s  _ in _ the--” Jon starts, following them.

“Flat 7A. I know lucky number seven is a cliche, but I’ve heard enough about this place that I think there’s something there,” Gerry says.

“What, a--a book? A Leitner?” Jon asks. “How do you know?”

“Every tenant there in the last two years has lost their mind within about, well, another cliche, but the average is about thirteen weeks,” Gerry says. “After moving in, that is.”

“So...so that’s…”

“Yes, yes, I know, it’s proper boring spooky story bullshit, all very campfire singalong or bad internet horror.” Gerry takes a ferocious drag. “But I’m pretty sure I know what it is, and the flat’s currently unoccupied, so we’re gonna take care of it.”

“Take...care of…”

“Find the book and burn it, Jon, fuck, how dense can you be?” Gerry snaps, irritated, flicking the cigarette into the road. 

“Sorry, you’re angry with  _ me _ ?” Jon asks, incredulous. “You ignored me for  _ weeks _ , I thought--”

“Thought what?” Gerry asks, scowling at him. “I have more important things to think about than you.”

“Then why call me at all?”

Gerry sighs, looking away. “Because I don’t really want to do this one alone. The Spiral’s best taken in a group. If there’s more than one of you, you can sort of be...spotters for reality.”

“Wait, what’s the Spir--”

“You’ll see.”

Jon sighs through his nose. “You’re not going to tell me  _ anything _ about the potentially dangerous situation you apparently need me for?”

“I don’t  _ need _ you,” Gerry says. “You’re the one who wanted to be involved so fucking badly.”

“What is your  _ problem _ ?” Jon snaps, and it’s obviously not the most eloquent way to put it, but it’s the best he can manage at present.

“You want an itemized list?” Gerry snaps back, eyes burning. “I don’t really have the energy for this, Jon. You can come or not. I’ll handle it on my own.”

“Is this a trick? Are you trying to get me to stay away ‘for my own good’ again? Or--”

“Fuck’s sake,” Gerry mutters, speeding up on their long, thin legs. Jon rushes to catch up, his leg inevitably catching strangely again and forcing him to limp quickly. 

“You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

“Guess not,” Gerry says. 

“What happened to your face?” Jon asks.

“You don’t ever stop, do you?”

“No,” Jon says, coolly. “Is that a problem?”

“A bit.” Gerry sighs, runs a hand through his hair. “Look. Okay. Fine. I guess you deserve  _ some _ briefing. I think this is a Spiral thing. If--if neither of us, you know,  _ touches  _ the book, or fucking gods forbid  _ reads _ it, we should be okay. However, you’re new at this, and even pros--like me--fuck up. Leitners have a way of pulling you into the deep end by the ankle once you’ve already stuck your toes in the pool.”

“So, what happens if--”

“Yeah, I’m getting there. It’s different for every book, even books for the same...well, I’m not getting into explaining  _ them _ . Point is, I don’t know. Possibly doors? Possibly painful psychedelic psychosis? Little of both? Neither? The Spiral’s like doing  _ really _ bad acid. Like, an absolute fucking  _ truckload _ of bad acid.” Gerry sighs again, scratching her neck. “It’s about a seven out of ten for me, compared to the others. I mean, it can get a  _ lot _ worse. You’ll be fine.”

“If--if that starts, how do we...stop it?” Jon asks, and Gerry laughs, sliding a hand into Jon’s coat pocket and pulling out his lighter, flicking it on. 

“Only one way to get rid of a bad book.”

“But if...if the...Spiral…? If it’s all about altered perception--and if it’s like a psychedelic, I’m assuming it is--couldn’t it make us see the book as--”

“Yeah, that’s the catch, isn’t it,” Gerry says, but they raise an eyebrow. “Not bad thinking for before you’ve even started.”

“I’m not  _ completely _ useless,” Jon mutters, more than a little bitterly, and Gerry snorts.

“I guess not. Are you sure about this, though? Like,  _ dead _ sure. Last chance.”

“Didn’t Ray Bradbury say it’s a pleasure to burn?” Jon asks, an attempt at lightheartedness in his tone, and Gerry laughs darkly.

“Leitner-hunting with a fucking nerd. What a way to spend a Tuesday night.”

“Is it...could we die?” Jon asks. “From this?”

“You can die from anything, mate,” Gerry says.

“Sure, but--”

“Yes. We could. Is that a problem?” she asks, clearly mocking Jon’s shitty, clipped tone.

“Not in the slightest,” Jon says, and finds he means it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (if I don't make the same Farenheit 451 joke in all my Gerry content, I will, apparently, die)
> 
> Anyway finally Leitner-burning next chapter! Get hyped.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! This one's the longest so far, sorry about that lol. I had fun writing it, I hope you guys enjoy reading it!

Jon watches in vague horror and extreme fascination as Gerry expertly picks the lock to flat 7A, hair tucked behind their ear, biting their lip. 

“Oh, you are  _ such _ a fucking baby,” Gerry says, snorting as he pushes the door open and turns to see Jon’s face. Jon sputters.

“I’m just not used to--”

“Crimes?”

“Yes,” Jon says, shrugging, brushing his hair behind his ear with one hand and hugging himself with the other. “I mean, what if we--”

“We are going to have  _ much _ bigger problems than the shithead landlord, Jon, alright? We won’t get caught, and if we do, I’ll handle it,” Gerry says, waving a hand dismissively and leaning into the flat. She flicks the lights on and leads Jon in. He nervously closes, locks, and deadbolts the door behind them, and Gerry rolls his eyes. 

“Doesn’t hurt to be careful,” Jon mutters, and Gerry laughs, softly.

“Okay, we’re looking for a book,” they say. “Can’t tell you what it’ll look like, but I’m sure you’ll know it when you see it.”

“How do you know the last tenant would’ve left it?”

“Leitners aren’t the kind of thing you want to take with you,” Gerry says. “They have a way of being right where they want to be. Besides, they dragged the last poor fucker out biting and screaming.”

“You talk about them like they’re--”

“Sentient?” Gerry finishes, with a wicked smirk. “That, uh...what, Mr. Spider’s Spooky Tea Party?”

“A Guest For Mr. Spider,” Jon corrects, sharply, some sort of offense on the book’s behalf flashing up in him, absurdly. 

“Sure. It found you on purpose, Jon,” Gerry says, and Jon tries to forget those words the second the soundwaves pass by him, because if that was  _ on purpose _ he’ll never be able to face the world again. 

“They’re just  _ books _ .”

“They sure are, mate.” Gerry wanders off into the bedroom and starts opening drawers. Jon walks into the kitchen, slowly, deeply aware of the wrongness of being somewhere he isn’t supposed to. It’s how he feels at parties, in his own bedroom, basically anywhere but onstage. He really needs to call his bandmates, he completely ghosted them, and it would help his mental health a lot to--

He opens a drawer without thinking about it, and finds it full of loose change, animal teeth, and severed mannequin fingers. He presses a hand over his mouth to stop himself screaming and quickly backs away, slamming into the stove. The noise makes Gerry rush in, skidding on the linoleum.

“You find it?” Gerry asks, and Jon just points, wide-eyed, at the open drawer. Gerry looks in and raises an eyebrow. “Well...huh. That’s very Stranger. Maybe I was wrong? Or it’s a combo? Or this is just a full-on horror house.”

“What the  _ fuck _ , Gerry,” Jon breathes, and Gerry looks back at him and sort of cackles.

“You’re getting your cherry popped, Jon, this is what you wanted,” she says, beaming. They reach into the drawer and pull out a particularly long tooth, holding it between their thumb and index finger. “Would this look cool on a choker, d’you think? Or is it too try-hard.”

“You seem to be in a fucking good mood all of a sudden,” Jon snaps.

“I’m in my element,” Gerry says. “I’m sure this is how you are with, uh...fuck, what are you even into? Jerking off to David Lynch films? Poking holes in Star Wars’s science?”

“Shut  _ up _ ,” Jon says, shaking his head. “God, this was stupid. I don’t know why I thought--”

“Hold that,” Gerry says, putting a finger up and reaching back into the drawer, hand disappearing under the teeth and plastic fingers and rusted coins, further down than the drawer should go. He pulls a book out and quickly drops it onto the counter like it’s burning them, backing up a step. “Okay. Now we’re in business.”

Jon steps forward to look at it. The cover is holographic and shifts with the viewer’s perspective, like one of those shitty mousepads from the 90s, and it makes him dizzy if he tries to make it settle as one image. There’s text on it--a title, maybe an author, but if it’s in English, or really  _ any _ language, Jon can’t quite tell. It escapes his comprehension every time he thinks he’s about to figure it out. 

He first thinks it’s Russian, then Korean, then Farsi, then Hebrew, then--no, maybe it  _ is _ just English--Gerry was right about whatever this is feeling like a bad trip. He starts questioning his own knowledge of language, written communication as a whole, whether he’s  _ ever _ been able to read, and why abstract shapes are interpreted as language, and--

Gerry shakes him, lightly, and he jolts. “Sorry,” he blurts, reflexively. “Sorry, I just--uh--”

“It got you,” Gerry says. “Careful. Don’t let it get any deeper than that.” Gerry throws a paper towel over the cover, and Jon realizes he’s been holding his breath. He feels nauseous and disoriented, like he’s waking up from a long, nightmarish nap, and can’t quite get a hold of himself or the world around him.

“So we burn it?” Jon asks, trying to swallow the saliva flooding his mouth down, and Gerry nods.

“Bathroom sink, I think, don’t wanna set the smoke alarms off,” she says, reaching into her deep sweatshirt pockets and pulling out visibly ancient and wildly frayed fingerless skeleton gloves. They preemptively glare up at Jon. “Don’t judge."

“I wasn’t,” he says, genuinely, because most of his energy is being focused on staying upright and not pulling the paper towel off the book. He’s sure he could read it this time, he just wasn’t focused enough, he’s been so scattered lately, but he knows he could--

Gerry smacks his hand, hard, eyes burning. “Fight it, okay? We can do this,” he says, picking the book up with gloved hands and holding it away from Jon. 

“I just want to know what language it’s in,” Jon says, and Gerry sighs.

“You can’t let it suck you in,” they say. “You’ll live without knowing.”

“But shouldn’t you know what it is before you destroy it? I mean, your mother collects--” Jon starts, and Gerry fully whirls to face him.

“My mother collects them? Yeah. Yes, she does. My mother is also a murderer, and a monster, and a fucking evil ghost, okay? So we’re not doing anything  _ my mother _ does,” Gerry says, likely overexaggerating, as always. “We’re burning it.  _ Without _ reading it.”

“I just want to--”

“What happened when you read a Leitner before?” Gerry asks, and Jon finds his mind so consumed with thinking about the shifting, painful cover of the book in their hands that he can’t remember  _ Mr. Spider _ at all.

It’s just a book. It’s just a fucking book. The drawer full of teeth and fingers was weird, certainly, but maybe it’s just...normal weird. Multiple people going insane in the same flat could easily be coincidence. Maybe Gerry’s been the one without a grip on reality this whole time, and Jon’s let them drag his mind down into this odd, nightmarish delusion with them.

The book is just a normal book, and if he reads it, he can prove that, and his life can go back to normal, and he doesn’t have to see Gerry again, and maybe--maybe he can fucking  _ rest _ . 

He probably can’t overpower Gerry, and he’s not sure he wants to resort to that anyway, but he’s not above basic grade school trickery. He points just over Gerry, tries to widen his eyes in what he hopes comes off as vague, dull horror, and goes slightly slackjawed. “Gerry...what  _ is _ that?” he asks, softly, and Gerry turns to look behind them.

Jon takes the moment of distraction to smack the book out of Gerry’s hands and crouches down to pick it up, flipping it open as Gerry launches a fluent stream of violently colorful swears at him. The bookplate does, as expected, say  _ From the Library of Jurgen Leitner _ , and Jon feels a shudder run up his spine at that, but flips to the next page anyway.

The words all run together, in circles and triangles and abstract, unnameable shapes. There’s no way to know where to start, or what order to go in, every page is cluttered with letters in senseless orders, languages blending together, sliding in and out of comprehension. Jon can’t look away, he’s riveted to it, desperate to understand.

Gerry rips the book away, so quickly the cover friction-burns Jon’s hands, and Jon frantically grabs for it, because he was just about to unravel the knot of words and figure out where to start, he  _ knows _ it, and it’s unfair to take that away--

He becomes aware of the fact that Gerry’s speaking, but the words tangle in Jon’s mind and come out unintelligible, like all language is foreign to him, and he squints helplessly, not understanding. Gerry sighs and presses a hand to her forehead, saying three forceful words and stalking off into the bathroom.

Jon stands to follow, and then the world twists, the flat’s narrow, short hallway extending and spiralling out like the words on the page. He leans on the wall for support, staggered by what he sees, and finds that his hand’s resting on a doorknob that he doesn’t  _ think _ was there before. 

He looks back at the hallway, and finds it undulating, extending, untangling and twisting out into oblivion, on and on, never ending, and he’s stuck standing there, paralyzed by the infinity of it all. 

The doorknob presses itself up into his hand, the metal cool and insistent and vibrating, and he looks back down at it and finds that his hand--isn’t--a hand? Or it’s a hand and he’s forgotten what a hand is. It doesn’t seem like his, dark and bony, like some frightening, sentient, living thing, webbed with veins and freckles and moles. Maybe he was an idiot to think his hand ever  _ belonged _ to him.

It tilts, palm up, and Jon can’t tell if he made it do that or not. His breath hitches, and he backs away, trying to escape his-not-his own hand-not-hand. Gerry catches his wrist and says something, insistently, with almost sympathetic eyes, and this time it’s not as much that they’re not speaking English as that they just sound very, very far away, like Jon’s deep underwater. 

Jon gets the overwhelming sense that Gerry’s going to pull his hand off like a mannequin's, and tenses, trying to back away, but Gerry doesn’t let go. Jon can’t look away from Gerry’s eyes, and they seem to extend out and back like the hallway.

Jon squeezes his own eyes shut tight, pressing his not-hand over them as Gerry’s arm wraps around his shoulders and gently eases him to the ground. The comforting pressure releases, and Jon drops his hand to look. The book fell out of Gerry’s hand when she was helping Jon, and they crouch to pick it up where it lays open on the wood floor. 

Her eyes briefly, instinctively scan the page it’s open to, once, normally, and as they start to look away their head snaps back to it, eyes tracing more complex patterns. Jon feels whatever lives in that book shift its attention to Gerry, batting his brain around like a cat toy.

Sound is suddenly too soft, light too dull. He feels hollowed. And Gerry won’t look away from the book, fingers tracing nonsensical shapes. Jon bites his lip, sighs, and reaches to pull the book away from Gerry, but she tightens her grip on it without even twitching her head or blinking.

“Gerry,” Jon says, like that’s going to do anything. “We have to burn it, it’s--”

“oN,” yrreG syas, and the sound is distorted and warped and flipped somehow. The non-word, tape-recorder-rewind voice keeps pouring out of him. “ti gnidaer m’I.”

It’s fucking terrifying. Jon can’t breathe. He feels eight again, dangling on the end of a string that would’ve dragged him straight to his death. It’s real, and he won’t let it get Gerry like it got that fucking bully.

“Gerry, listen to me, this is my fault, and I’m going to fix it, okay? You just have to let me help you,” Jon says, as calmly as he can manage, trying to lean down to catch Gerry’s eyes, but she doesn’t even get close to meeting them.

Jon pulls the book again, and this time Gerry lashes out in response, gripping his wrist so tightly it hurts. Jon hisses in pain, and manages to twist his wrist hard enough to break Gerry’s grip, pulling his hand away. 

Gerry closes the book, slowly, and stands up, unsteady. They blink like they have absolutely no idea where they are, and reach out for a blank patch of wall. Jon grabs the book, holding it behind his back so he can’t look at it. 

“Gerry, I think the doors are probably bad,” Jon says, but Gerry doesn’t seem to register him speaking at all. “Gerry.  _ Fuck _ .”

“drareG s’tI,” syas-nu yrreG, and Jon can’t really parse what that means even remotely. 

Jon can’t physically overpower them, and can’t get through to them, so he throws himself into the bathroom, drops the book in the sink, and flicks his lighter on. He can’t get it to start, and his hands feel numb and foreign, and even just the cover is starting to get to him, the bathroom mirror extending him infinite and unknowable.

Finally, the flame flicks on, and Jon holds it to the pages in the middle of the closed book, as close as he can get it, silently praying it’ll light before he stops remembering the basic premise of what fire does. Thankfully, it does, and he lets the lighter flick off and staggers back, sighing with relief. It smells oddly like burning meat, rather than paper, but Jon figures it’s just the book getting in his head.

He looks back out into the hall, where Gerry’s pressed against a blank wall, convulsing slightly. He starts to tilt hard, and Jon manages to catch him enough to at least slow his fall.

“Are you okay?” Jon asks, softly, voice ragged, breathing hard. He realizes what a stupid question that is quickly, because he still has the impossible word-swirl symbols burnt into his mind. 

“No,” Gerry chokes, laughing humorlessly. “Fuck.”

“I’m sorry,” Jon says, gripping a handful of his own hair tight enough it hurts his scalp. “I’m so sorry, I should’ve--”

“Nah,” Gerry says. “You needed to know why to never do that ever again.”

“You did that to--to--”

“Oh, Jon, no amount of  _ teaching you a lesson _ would be worth getting sucked in by a Leitner. No. That wasn’t on purpose,” Gerry says, snorting. “Thank you for getting the job done, though.”

“That was…” Jon starts, but he can’t find a word to finish his sentence that would properly convey what, exactly, it was.

“Yup. That’s the Spiral.”

“And that’s one of the  _ better _ ones?” Jon asks, laughing incredulously.

“Mate, we stumble across a Corruption Leitner, you will be  _ begging _ for the Spiral back,” Gerry says. 

“We?” Jon asks.

“Well, I mean, you fucked everything up, but you also fixed it, so. No harm, no foul,” Gerry says. “You can have another shot.”

“I thought I was--”

“Annoying? Paranoid? Weird? Yeah,” Gerry says, shrugging. “You are.”

“Then--”

“Wait, what the fuck happened to your hand,” Gerry says, squinting at Jon’s hand. Jon follows his gaze to find his hand apparently badly burnt. He raises it to his face, trying to figure out where it--

Gerry stands up, quickly, bolting the few steps into the bathroom, and makes an inscrutable noise of frustration. 

“What?” Jon asks.

“Where’s the book, Jon?” Gerry asks, and Jon shrugs, helplessly.

“Burning in the sink?” he says, gesturing at the bathroom. “Is it...not…?”

“There’s nothing there, and you burnt the shit out of your hand,” Gerry says.

“No, I  _ definitely _ lit the book on fire,” Jon says.

“Did you smell burning?” Gerry asks, and Jon squints, thinking--meat. Right. That  _ did _ seem odd. 

“Well...actually…” Jon starts, and Gerry sighs, turning around and pressing both hands over their face and softly screaming in her throat. “I’m…I’m sorry--”

“No,” Gerry says, shaking his head. “No, no, you don’t apologize. It’s my fault it hurt you. You’re--I shouldn’t have dragged you into this. I shouldn’t have listened to you.”

“It’s  _ fine _ ,” Jon says. “It’ll heal.”

“The book’s gone,” Gerry says. “Probably down some fucking hallway to terrorize some new shitty flat.”

“Gerry, I’m--”

“No, I mean, that still means my mum can’t have it, so...fine.” She pulls her hair back. “Look, I’m sorry about this. We should...we probably shouldn’t do this again.”

“We  _ have _ to,” Jon says. “I have to--I have to do it right. To make up for it. And if--if what-if what you’re doing takes things like  _ that _ out of the world, then it’s definitely the right fucking thing to do.”

Gerry’s lip twitches slightly at that, eyebrows knitting together. They sigh again, crouch to be at Jon’s level, put a hand on his cheek, and before he can fully register the physical contact, they kiss him, firmly. “It’s not your call. I can do this alone.”

“What?” Jon asks, blankly.

“Bye, Jon,” Gerry says, patting him on the chest and turning to leave. 

“No,  _ no,  _ no, don’t do that,” Jon says, lurching to his feet and following them. “Don’t just  _ go _ , I--”

Gerry turns and quickly grabs Jon’s burnt hand and squeezes, hard enough that every single nerve erupts with blinding pain, and Jon presses the hand protectively to his stomach, screaming completely silently and reeling backwards.

By the time he recovers, Gerry’s gone, and Jon’s left alone in the bare, silent apartment. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for reading <3


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoy! <3

School is a formality at this point. Jon physically goes to class still, because he’s so conditioned to that not even being a choice, but he just sits there and absorbs absolutely none of it. Mostly he ends up running his thumb over the burn scars on his hand and thinking about the book, just the  _ thought _ making his heart pound hard enough he can barely breathe.

There is something deep and dangerous lurking under reality and it can break through and it’s  _ real _ , it’s all real, that dark, webbed-over doorway--if what happened in Flat 7A really happened, then it’s all possible. Gerry’s backwards speech sticks and record-skips in Jon’s mind, chilling and impossible and absolutely terrifying; the hallway stretching into infinity and the doors that didn’t exist; the absolute certainty that he was burning the book as he flicked the lighter on under his hand.

The still skeptical, so-called “rational” part of his mind tells him that that could all have been part of some deeply terrifying  _ episode _ , delusions, hallucinations, it’s not out of the question--but that part of him gets quieter every day. He’s fairly confident in his own sanity this time, actually, and he’s desperate to know more.

He considers going back to Pinhole Books to speak to Gerry’s terrifying mother about everything. Of course, if everything is real after all, then maybe Gerry was telling the truth about his mother being a potentially murderous ghost, but Jon’s weighing whether that actually bothers him enough or not.

He might also run into Gerry. He doesn’t really know if that’s a good thing or not. He’s been avoiding thinking about Gerry kissing him for his own sanity, though that’s ironic, considering what he  _ has _ been thinking about.

He would go out and hunt Leitners on his own, but he has no idea where to even begin to look, no remote idea how Gerry gets tips on them. That’s something he thinks he might be able to figure out, though, something obsessive research could actually get him somewhere on. After his fuck-up, he has to burn one, has to take something evil out of the world after giving in twice, he has to prove to himself that he can--can do something useful and fucking worthwhile, because sitting in lecture halls isn’t really getting him anywhere and he’s fairly certain he’s going to fail his midterms.

He should probably also be more prepared, though, which brings him back to going to Morden to speak with Mary. Anxiety about running into Gerry is a stupid reason to avoid this. 

He brings a book he was supposed to have read for class over a week ago on the bus, in the vain hope that he can trick himself into catching up on schoolwork since he’s finally giving into something he actually wants to do.

Doesn’t work. He just ends up staring out the window, leg bouncing, thinking about the possible etymology of the non-language the Leitner in 7A was written in, but his mind is falling farther into a very deep chasm the more he thinks about it, even without it physically being there, and he tries to blink himself out of it when he sees a door in the floor of the bus.

Gerry was right.  _ You’ll never really be out of this _ . But it’s not as if he ever had a choice, not since that book found its way into his hands over a decade ago. At least he’s older now, somewhat harder to victimize, and a lot more interested in keeping anyone from suffering the same fate as eight-year-old him.

So, fine, he can navigate himself around the memories of the Spiral book, like he’s always done with Mr. Spider.

More time than he expected passed with his mind caught by the Spiral, and the bus stops in Morden before he’s fully registered it’s even in London. He gets out and finds that his feet take him straight to Pinhole Books without much input.

He rings the doorbell, hugs himself, and waits, trying to plan the exact questions he’s going to ask.  _ What are they? Do they have physical forms? What did Leitner have to do with them?  _ However, when Mary opens the door, he finds the words evaporating.

Her tattoos look...smudged, somehow, like stains, running together on her skin, the black ink running bloody. 

“Gerard isn’t here,” she says, starting to close the door, but Jon sticks his hand out to stop it.

“Wait, I’m not--I’m not here for Gerr--Gerard,” he says. “I wanted to talk to you.”

“Do you have an appointment?” she snaps.

“No, but--” Jon starts.

“Then fuck off.”

“I see the family resemblance,” Jon mutters, bitter. “I just want to ask you about--about  _ them _ .”

“I’m not here for exposition,  _ dear _ ,” Mary spits, and Jon almost snorts. Gerry really did get their bitchy anti-social nature from her.

“What could I give you in return?” Jon asks, shrugging helplessly. “I need to know more.”

A smirk pulls Mary’s lips up. “Consumed by the Ceaseless Watcher, then?”

“What?” Jon asks, blinking in confusion.

“Oh, nothing.” She waves a hand. “You’d be willing to do me...a favor? In exchange for more information?”

“Yes, sure, anything,” Jon says, aware that he probably shouldn’t have just said that to her.

“Good,” she says. “Gerard refuses to cooperate, but I may not need him if you’re half-decent and as marked as you seem.”

“Marked?” Jon asks, nervously rubbing a thread on the inside of his sleeve.

“Nothing to worry about, love,” Mary says, still smirking wickedly. Jon feels distinctly as if he’s being batted around like prey. “Come in.”

* * *

Jon doesn’t think Mary gave him enough information to justify what she’s asked him to do in exchange, but she scared him just badly enough that he’s not going to fight too hard. Or at all, as it turns out, because he’s already here, on the rotted threshold of a burnt-out and long-abandoned country house.

Mary wants him to bring the Leitner that’s supposedly somewhere in the house back to her, and while Jon  _ really _ doesn’t want to do that, he also really doesn’t want to piss her off. She kept getting this look in her eyes like she could eat him alive, and about halfway through their conversation, he really started to believe the outlandish things Gerry had said about her.

She told him about--entities, she’d called them, like Gerry. Beings that feed on fear. Gods. She’d talked about them with a sick reverence, like the fact that they were torturing and preying on humanity was a bonus rather than a flaw.

To an extent, Jon gets being so disconnected from people that you can start to believe you aren’t one, but on the other, mass suffering always tends to flood him with a very nauseating blend of secondhand pain and voyeuristic fascination, and he can’t possibly imagine ever being  _ content _ with it, with sitting by and just letting it continue endlessly.

He’s not sure he can deal with a Leitner alone, though, whether he’s burning it or not. He’s clearly susceptible to them, if the two he’s previously encountered are enough to set a pattern, and the fact that this place is both burnt out and overgrown with a fungus-y lichen he’s never seen before makes him...nervous.

The front door’s locked, naturally, so he wades through waist-high, thick, thorny bushes around to the back, where the door is broken and stuck half-open. He squeezes himself through and finds himself in a small laundry room. The washing machine’s rusted and coated in that strange not-fungus. He resists the urge to trail his fingers over it, and wanders out into a hallway. 

The air feels oddly thick, like something’s hanging in it, old and dusty and alive, somehow. It smells...familiar. Jon doesn’t remember much of anything about his mother, but in the moment, he’s absolutely sure that this house, absurdly, smells like her.

He’s not nervous anymore. He feels like he belongs here, and starts to explore in somewhat of a daze, that smell flooding him with content, his lungs starting to feel pleasantly full. He forgets his caution, trails his hand over the walls, that strange organic substance cracking off under his fingertips. 

He finds himself in a small, spare bedroom. A metal bedframe is rooted to the ground by thick layers of the odd, orange lichen that climb the legs. His hip twinges with pain, and he finds himself overwhelmingly tempted to sit down on the bed.

He does, unquestioningly, feeling sort of high, nerves singing some kind of sweet, old song. He belongs here, he thinks, though he can’t create a train of thought that explains why. He lays down, closing his eyes, settling into this, the first moment of contentment he’s had in as long as he can remember. 

The rotting mattress is soft under him, just as welcoming as the rest of the house.

He doesn’t quite remember why he ended up here, but he’s glad he did. He could sleep for a long time, he thinks. Something feels like it’s crawling over his skin, but it’s not the disgusting prickle of spider’s legs, more like the feeling of sliding his favorite coat on, natural and comforting and familiar. He doesn’t feel the need to open his eyes and look at it. It doesn’t matter, not now.

Whatever it is, it caresses him, climbs his body, covers him, warm and loving and considerate, and his blood hums in contentment, at first, but it starts to scream after a moment, white-hot and terrified, and his heart jolts, and he tries to open his eyes but finds he can’t.

He jolts against the blanket-turned-prison and can’t move much, just sort of ineffectually spasm. He tries to scream, but when he opens his mouth, something climbs down his throat, and he closes it, quickly, trying to bite down on whatever got in. It tastes like stale blood, and he chokes on it.

It clenches tighter around him, and he understands instinctively that it’s trying to calm him, which just makes him thrash harder. He’s not going to blindly embrace his own destruction, not like this.

He struggles, it tightens, and he’s fairly sure that this is going to be where he dies when suddenly cool patches start opening on his skin, something scratching at it, tearing off his attacker.

Nails rip at his face, and suddenly he can open his eyes again.

He’s not surprised at all to see Gerry scowling in concentration as they claw handfuls of the lichen off Jon’s body.

“Why are you here?” Gerry asks, and Jon takes a long moment to catch his breath. 

“I was looking for the--”

“Yeah, no shit, and it almost fucking  _ took _ you,” Gerry says. “You are  _ not _ a natural, I was absolutely mistaken. You are complete shit at this. How did you even  _ hear _ about this place?”

“I spoke to your mother,” Jon says, and Gerry’s eyes flash pain and rage and worry.

“Why would you do that?”

“I needed to know, and you fucking  _ left _ , so--” Jon spits.

“You are  _ such _ an idiot!” Gerry shouts, overhand pitching a handful of the evil lichen into a wall. “I thought the Spiral would’ve taught you to stay away, what is _ wrong _ with you?”

“What’s wrong with  _ me _ ?” Jon tries to shout back, but it comes out hoarse, because something is still alive in his throat, clinging to the inside of it, and he puts a hand over his neck, trying futilely to cough it out.

“Yeah, Jon, what’s wrong with you?” Gerry repeats, apparently oblivious to Jon choking. “I told you my mum’s evil, and you went  _ straight _ to her, and now you’re hunting Leitners for her?”

“Gerry--” Jon chokes out, both hands over his neck, and Gerry swears.

“Heimlich won’t work on this,” Gerry says. “Save your breath. If I burn the book, the Corruption should fuck off. Hang tight. Have to fucking save your stupid, scrawny ass  _ again _ .”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3<3<3 stay tuned for more of me just obviously loving the Corruption too much and also Dumbass Romance


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay this one's a little shorter than usual and kind of weird so apologies on both fronts! Hope you still enjoy, though <3
> 
> TW: hard to explain but like...weird consent due to, essentially, kissing pollen. I would call it 'kiss or die'.

Jon follows Gerry down the hallway of the house as they desperately throw shit around and wrench drawers open, looking for the book. She looks close to panicked, face set but eyes wild, and the longer they go without finding anything, the more on edge he looks. 

“Gerry--” Jon tries to start, again, like he’s done at least five times now. Gerry whirls on him.

“Jon, I am not going to tell you to save your breath again, okay? I’m absolutely fucking serious.” He  _ looks _ serious, too, solemn and tough and sort of scrappy, like a particularly cute stray dog. Jon’s throat is starting to feel like it’s swelling shut, but there’s a quick rush of air through it when Gerry’s eyes meet his.

“Okay,” Jon says, shrugging.

“Look,” Gerry says, turning away again and going back to scanning the spines on a bookshelf, tossing old, rotted books everywhere. “I’m sorry I left last time. I realize I really...I didn’t do you any favors by doing that. Things just tend to be better where I’m not.”

Every moment Gerry isn’t looking at Jon, the shit in his throat seems to grow thicker and denser. It’s a strange feeling, and Jon thinks he’s starting to lose oxygen to his brain a little. He gasps shallowly for air, a wave of dizziness forcing him to his knees.

Gerry immediately drops to their knees as well, lifting Jon’s chin and trying to make eye contact. Once again, her eyes clear a path to Jon’s lungs, and he can breathe again, that sweet-smelling air that’s starting to smell like Gerry’s bedroom. 

“This is my fault, and I’m going to fix it, and then we’re gonna talk all this through, okay?” Gerry’s saying, and Jon nods. He thinks maybe he’d agree with anything Gerry said if it meant they wouldn’t move their hand off his face.

The logical part of Jon’s mind, still kicking and struggling, says  _ this is wrong, you’re dying, you shouldn’t feel like this _ . It’s quickly completely drowned out by the thought that he wants to kiss Gerry so badly it burns the inside of his ribs.

_ This isn’t normal, something’s wrong with you, you  _ know _ something’s-- _

Gerry pushes himself to his feet, and Jon quickly follows, reaching out to grab their wrist. 

“Don’t leave,” Jon manages, and he means it as  _ I can breathe when I see you, so there must be something to that, and I’d like to not die _ , but it comes out as more of a breathy ingenue impression.

Gerry squints at him in concern, cocking his head and leaning in, pulling Jon’s eye open with a thumb on his cheek and inspecting him. “What’s going on, J--oh--”

Jon leans in the short distance and kisses her, and the pressure in his throat starts to dissipate, move upwards, leave his body, and then his logical brain takes his body back over and goes  _ holy shit, what are you doing _ , and he pulls away.

Gerry coughs, hand to his throat, blinking at Jon in confusion. 

“I’m sorry,” Jon says. “I have no idea why--I’m so sorry, I--”

“I kissed you last time, dipshit,” Gerry says, but still looks confused. They twinge a little, looking away and pressing her hand farther into her neck. 

“Are you okay?” Jon asks. “Because--”

Gerry growls in their throat and annihilates the distance between them, pushing into Jon harder than he expected, their teeth pulling Jon’s bottom lip. “I’m good,” she breathes, smiling against his chin before kissing him again, and this time, Jon feels the shit that was in his throat grow again, flourish, even. The part of him that understands reason gets totally drowned out in the moment, in the desire to just be  _ with _ someone and not have to be only himself, and he bites Gerry’s lips back.

“No--” Gerry manages, pushing Jon away, struggling for breath, and Jon sees something webbing over their lips. Jon reaches up and brushes a finger over his lips as well.

The lichen.

“So it’s--oh, god,” Jon manages, and Gerry nods.

“Until we find the book, yeah,” she says, through little, gasping, hyperventilating breaths.

Jon’s own airway’s starting to close as well. “We can’t, though, we--”

Gerry kisses him, hard, and inhales deeply. “It’s like extremely unfortunate underwater swimming,” they say, assuredly, though Jon sees something very frightened in their eyes. “Except in this case, regular air is the water, and you’re air. I’m shit at metaphors when I’m dying, sorry.” They kiss him again.

“We have to talk about this, after--if we--”

“We’re just doing this to survive, I know,” Gerry says.

“Why would it want us to--to--” Jon sputters.

“Is this really what you want to waste your breath on right now? Look, let’s look for it, but we have to stay close, because I think--” He chokes for air, kisses Jon, and continues, “--it’s getting less helpful each time.”

“What happens if it--if it--”

“Let’s not think about that, Jon, yeah?” Gerry says, making somewhat reassuring eye contact, turning back to the bookcase and quickly scanning. “Help me look.”

They both scour, pausing to kiss each other for air frequently, until Jon finds his desire to kiss Gerry is outweighing even the need to breathe. His head is pounding with the lack of oxygen, and he’s basically just standing with his chin on Gerry’s shoulder, letting Gerry support his weight, turning to briefly kiss him every thirty or so seconds.

“I should’ve just asked you out instead of dragging you into this,” Gerry barely wheezes. “This is fucking awful.”

Jon can barely tear himself away from looking at Gerry, but then he sees something on the shelf. A book on invasive plants and fungi with no author listed. He lunges for it, sliding off Gerry, hitting the bookcase, and falling to the ground with the book in his hands.

He doesn’t open it, having learned his lesson on that, but the lichen grows out from the closed cover and coats his hands. Gerry pulls on it, gently, and Jon’s not trying to hold on, but he’s bound to it and can’t let go.

“I have to burn it,” Gerry rasps, softly. “I know it’s hard, Jon, you have to let go.”

“What if we gave in?” Jon barely forces out. Gerry kisses him, apologetically, and it’s suddenly a little easier to breathe. “Would it be so awful to be--to be  _ part _ of something?”

“We can’t be part of  _ them _ , Jon, we’re made for better things, yeah? We’re saving people. You have to let go.”

Jon’s grip loosens just enough for Gerry to wrench it away, light it, and throw it across the room from them. It burns, and as it does, Jon’s able to cough ashy lichen out of his throat and wipe it off his lips.

“I’m  _ so _ sorry,” Jon says, as if that covers it.

“No, it’s--all of this is my fucking fault,” Gerry says, pressing his hands to his face. “Leaving you was stupid and selfish, but I really--I  _ really _ don’t want you to get hurt, Jon, I really don’t.”

“Gerry, I don’t know if the feelings I have are--”

“I’m not talking about--I’m not talking about that,” Gerry says, hardening. “That was survival. I think it wanted to...to spread, somehow, to--incubate, maybe? Using us together? Look, I don’t know, but we beat it, and it’s okay.”

“The house is going to burn down,” Jon says, weakly pointing at the book burning on the wooden floor.

“Yeah, and we’ll deal with that,” Gerry says. “I don’t want you to get hurt because--because they’ve already victimized you, you know? And you deserve better.”

“Too bad.”

“Yeah,” Gerry says, laughing weakly. “Too bad.”

“Thank you for apologizing,” Jon says, softly. “I’m sorry for getting you possessed by the Spiral and almost becoming a slime mold with you.”

“No harm, no foul.”

“So, can I hunt with you?” Jon asks, raising an eyebrow hopefully, and Gerry scoffs.

“I--I don’t think--” She trails off and sighs. “Well, I mean, by letting me burn the book, you’ll have ticked my mum  _ right _ off, and if you think things were bad for you  _ before _ …”

“I want to.”

“Of course you do.” Gerry stands up and offers Jon a hand, which he takes, letting Gerry pull him to his feet. He follows them out the front door as the house starts to go up in flames. “How’s it feel? Your first successful burn?”

Jon looks at Gerry as she watches the flames. The lichen’s long gone, but he feels his heart racing slightly anyway, an itch crawling the back of his neck. He clears his throat. “Yeah, good.”

They’re stood in the middle of the road, lichen-stained and somewhat breathless, and neighbors start to spill out on the street, exclaiming about the fire. Gerry doesn’t move a centimetre, just smiles like no one’s watching. “Fuck you, Mary,” he says, out loud, to the air, and then they turn to Jon, all crooked teeth, and Jon kisses them before he can help himself.

Her eyes widen in surprise, but she quickly leans into it, the stares of the confused, moderately frightened neighbors bouncing off their backs.

“Okay,” Gerry says, still grinning wickedly. “Alright, Jon.”

“Don’t just  _ leave  _ again.”

“I’ll try,” Gerry says, before directing a ‘nothing to see here’ at the people watching. “Let’s get out of here, though, I think.”

“I think that might be prescient, yeah.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3<3


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is literally just Local Dumbasses Fail To Communicate (Again). Hope you enjoy!

There’s still lichen ash in the back of Jon’s throat, and he keeps trying to cough it out, which is making everyone in this shitty pub, including Gerry, stare daggers into him.

“Could you call literally anymore attention to us?” Gerry asks, voice at a low rasp, likely because they’re just playing tough by not coughing like Jon. “Fucking wave a sign around, Jon, why don’t you? ‘Suspected arsonists h--’” 

She chokes on ‘here’ and slams back a good portion of the pint she ordered to try to clear their throat. 

“I’m just trying to get it  _ out _ ,” Jon says, voice raw, the vibration of his vocal cords burning his throat. 

“That wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been,” Gerry says, shrugging one shoulder. “I mean, you wanted to kiss me anyway and stakes are fun.”

“ _ Fun _ .” Jon shakes his head and scoffs.

“I’m  _ joking _ .”

“So--you said that was the, uh--the Corruption?” Jon asks, throat very dry and ragged. He regrets turning down Gerry’s offer of a pint, and idly wonders if they’d mind terribly if he just downed the rest of theirs.

“Yep,” Gerry says, rubbing his eyes. “Love Lichen feels like it should be some fucked-up dubiously effective aphrodisiac sold on the dark web.”

Jon snorts, despite himself. “You’re not wrong.”

“I never fucking  _ am _ , Jon, and yet you still ignore my sage counsel.” Gerry crosses their arms and leans their chair back, far enough that they could ostensibly tip over, which would probably be pretty funny. Jon takes the opportunity to slide her pint across the table and drain it. 

Gerry’s chair comes clattering back to a regular upright position, her eyes blazing with mock rage, and they open their mouth, pretending to be too angry to speak. He shakes his head wordlessly, and Jon laughs at the acting, accidentally spitting beer onto the table, which makes Gerry snort.

“You see all the best sides of me,” Jon says, smiling as he wipes his mouth. 

“The obsessiveness, the  _ thievery _ , the obstinance, the gross inability to control bodily functions--do you  _ have _ a bad side, Jon? I haven’t seen it yet,” Gerry says, smirking, and Jon bites his lip hard to try and stop the swell of feelings in his gut.

“So, um. So should we talk about the--the, uh--” Jon sighs and just gestures between them, because he can’t quite summon the words. 

“Nothing to talk about,” Gerry says, shrugging and waving a hand dismissively. “What’s a little kiss-pollen between friends?”

“So that’s it?” Jon asks, a little surprised, partially at Gerry’s nonchalant response and partially at how disappointed it makes him.

“Was a weird situation, you were under duress, don’t worry, I’m not taking anything the wrong way,” Gerry says, infuriatingly calmly. “However I feel about you, I’m not going to use ‘you had to kiss me or literally choke to death’ as a reason you should--” He trails off and shrugs again. “Do anything. I don’t know.”

“But how  _ do _ you feel about me?”

“What is this, a police interview? ‘Where were your feelings the night of the fire?’” Gerry asks, corner of their lips twitching up. “You’re a smart boy, Jon, I know you have analytical powers somewhere in that weird little head.”

“The condescension is noted,” Jon says, hint of irritation in his voice, raising an eyebrow. 

“Yeah, Jon, obviously I have one or two feelings for you,” Gerry says, looking away and laughing to herself. “Doesn’t really matter, though, if we’re really gonna be working together--and I’d rather you work with me than going off alone again or--fucking  _ gods _ forbid--going to my mother.”

“So--”

“But I know you don’t feel the same, and that’s okay.”

“Wh--how do you know that?” Jon asks, squinting in confusion. “Why do you--I kissed you after we got out of the house, that--”

“We still had that shit in us, Jon, look, we still might. I had feelings before the house, did you?” Gerry asks.

“I don’t know,” Jon says, emphatically, throwing his hands up. “I don’t fucking  _ know _ , Gerard, I’m  _ bad _ at feeling things.”

“Oh, it’s ‘Gerard’ now?” Gerry asks, cocking his head and raising an eyebrow. “Alright.”

“I don’t know how I feel,” Jon says, running his hands back through his hair. “I, uh. I sort of was forcibly ejected from a long-term relationship not  _ that _ long ago, and. I don’t know.”

“Forcibly ejected?” Gerry asks.

“I don’t particularly want to talk about it,” Jon says, trying to bury the memory that flashes white-hot through his brain.  _ It’s just never going to get better, is it? _

If he even  _ does _ have feelings for Gerry, they deserve better, don’t they.

“I’d say I get it, but I’ve actually never dated anyone,” Gerry says, with a toothy, self-deprecating smirk. “Shocking, I’m sure.”

“It is, a bit, actually,” Jon says. 

“Don’t hold it against me, I was raised weird.”

“You keep--you keep dodging. What did your mother  _ do _ , what’s wrong with her, because she scares the hell out of me.”

“I haven’t dodged a single time you’ve asked the question, actually,” Gerry says, looking a bit irritated, getting louder, and Jon realizes he’s hit a nerve. “She murdered my father and I don’t know how many others and bound them into a flesh book that could summon their ghosts, and then she tried to get me to do the same to her. She raised me to believe in and support fucking dread gods that thrive on human misery. She was fucking  _ mean _ and distant and didn’t give a  _ shit _ about me, even when I bought into her bullshit. I have never dodged a question about my mother in my life. I hate her too much to lie for her.”

Everyone’s staring at them again, critical eyes boring into Gerry. Jon can feel their judgments, the way they all write her off and dismiss her as crazy or high or probably both, and it makes him a bit ill on her behalf, but she doesn’t seem to care a bit, just keeps their chin held high, eyes locked on Jon’s.

“If she--if she killed that many people, how has she never been caught?” Jon asks, genuinely curious, and he realizes too late that it sounds like he doesn’t believe Gerry.

“Because she’s smart and has actual gods on her side, Jon,” Gerry snaps. “Plus, officially, she’s dead, so that helps.”

“She’s--so she’s  _ actually _ a ghost, then.”

“Yes,” Gerry says. The entire pub’s gone silent around them, everyone too interested in their conversation to continue their own. “My mum’s a fucking vengeful ghost. She literally haunts me constantly and never shuts up and drives me to extremes to get--just to get  _ sleep _ . I burn books when I get free because it’s the only thing I know hurts her.”

“You should try cleansing the house,” a woman sat at the bar says, and Gerry doesn’t even turn to look at her. “My mother-in-law haunted me like that, and we cleansed the place and it helped.”

“Tried that, yeah,” they say. “Mind your own fucking business.”

“Thank you?” Jon offers, and Gerry rolls his eyes.

“We should go,” Gerry says. “Probably better if I come with you, Mary will fucking kill us if we set foot in Pinhole.”

“You’re inviting yourself to stay in my--”

“You’d be dead if not for me, so.”

“Why are you  _ like _ this?” Jon asks. It’s ineloquent and sort of cruel and not even what he actually means, but it comes out all the same.

“I don’t know, the insomnia? The shit I put in my body to fight the insomnia? Could be the isolation, or the constant danger, or the latent mental illness I must fucking have considering my mother.”

“I didn’t mean to--”

“I know you didn’t, Jon, I’m not mad at you,” Gerry says, putting a hand out. “I’m mad at existence. It spills out sometimes.”

“We really  _ should _ go,” Jon says.

“Probably.”

“I’m...I’m sorry about…” 

“Nah, no reason. Sorry for  _ that _ . Not very sexy of me.”

“I, uh--I only have my bed, though, and I don’t have a couch, so I--I can sleep on the floor, uh,” Jon starts, because his mind’s been wandering to the image of Gerry in his tiny shitty flat. 

“How big’s the bed?” Gerry asks, lips twitching. 

“Oh,” Jon says, eyes widening at the implication. “Um.”

“We just had to suck each other’s faces for survival, Jonathan, I think sleeping clothed and back to back in the same bed is uh,  _ chaste _ enough.”

“Don’t call me that,” Jon says, twitching at  _ Jonathan _ , instantly hearing his grandmother. 

“Don’t call me Gerard,” Gerry says, with a bright, forced smile. “Look, if you really would rather sleep on the floor, I guess I won’t fight you, but I imagine it’s hell on your brittle little bones.”

“We can figure it out,” Jon sighs. “Let’s go.”

“Shall we?” Gerry asks, standing up and offering their arm to Jon in a grandiose gesture that has everyone in the pub looking at them again. Their stares bore into Jon and make him feel ill, so he just hugs himself and doesn’t take Gerry’s arm. 

Her eyes go dark and she drops it, and just walks quickly out. Jon follows, and curses himself for literally everything he’s ever done in his entire life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> but there was only one bed!!!!!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy new episode day! Can I offer you another chapter of these absolute idiots working out their feelings? (I promise we'll be back to the horror stuff next time) Hope you enjoy.

As it turns out, the anxiety about sleeping arrangements was completely unnecessary on Jon’s part, since both he and Gerry aren’t amazing at actually sleeping. Gerry lays in Jon’s bed staring at the ceiling, Jon leans out the window and smokes, both of them silent, pretending that if they just sort of stop all high-level functioning, it’s the same thing as being asleep.

Jon can’t stop thinking about the house, about the lichen growing over him, in him, that overwhelming sense that for  _ once _ he belonged somewhere. It’s a cruel thing to have, to have it be a lie, to have it ripped away again. He can’t stop poking it with his mind. 

They do this until about one in the morning, when Gerry finally sits up, sighs, and says “I’m gonna go get stoned in the park, I can’t take this anymore.”

“Can I come?” Jon asks, grateful for something to do other than stand there auto-cannibalizing his brain. 

“No,” Gerry deadpans, swinging their legs off the bed and reaching for the old, beat-up backpack they protectively shoved under it. It’s covered in peeling patches and barely attached pins. Looks like a relic from Jon’s emo phase. Gerry slides it over her shoulder and heads for the door.

Jon follows, despite the (probably?) joking rejection, and Gerry sighs at him. “What?” Jon asks, and Gerry shakes his head.

“Nah. Nothing.”

“If you really don’t want me to--” Jon starts, brow furrowing, and Gerry tilts their head back.

“No. It’s fine.”

“I--”

“ _ Jon _ ,” Gerry says. “Don’t make everything a thing. Come smoke weed in the park with me.”

“I would love to,” Jon says, softly, and Gerry laughs through his nose, walking out onto the street in silence. They pass through a throng of drunk students, and Jon feels, as always, like he’s been briefly thrust into a world he’s not quite enough for. Gerry turns to make a face at their backs once they’re past them, and Jon can’t help but snort at it. Derisive and disbelieving.

“Imagine being that empty and clueless,” Gerry says.

“I wish I could,” Jon says, and Gerry scoffs, turning back around. “What? You really don’t ever wish you could just--just be  _ easy _ with people? Just move from painless thought to painless thought? Love and be loved without fucking agonizing over it?”

“Fuck, and this is you  _ without _ drugs,” Gerry says, raising an eyebrow at him. “No. I don’t. I’d rather know what’s coming for me.”

“I would too,” Jon sighs. Gerry leads him across the street into a park he used to study with Georgie in, and the memory’s a little uncomfortable. Gerry sits them directly under a streetlight, and lights a joint she pulls out of a mint tin in their backpack.

“I guess I’m just jealous,” they say, before taking a long hit and closing their eyes, holding it in with a pained look. They hand the joint to Jon, who gratefully accepts it, waiting for them to finish their thought, which she does, with a rush of smoke. “I never got a childhood. Makes me bitter about fuckers still being kids at my age.”

“I feel the same,” Jon says, and then accidentally coughs the rest of his hit out, which makes Gerry snort, a fond smirk twitching at their lips. They pull the joint back from him, take a drag, and brush Jon’s hair behind his ears. The physical contact freezes Jon, and he stops breathing, trapped in the headlights.

Gerry cocks her head, hair falling to the side, and slides closer to him on the bench, hand still on the side of his face. They lean in, centimeters from Jon’s lips, and exhale. Jon forgets to breathe in, so he just gets a choking facefull of smoke. Gerry slides back away, laughing soundlessly. “Did I short-circuit you or has no one ever shotgunned you before?” Gerry asks.

“B--both,” Jon says, blinking in surprise, the brief spell broken. “Sorry.”

Gerry sighs and takes another hit, brushing their own hair back. “Fuck,” he sighs, handing the joint back to Jon, who takes it, inhales deep, and then, before he can second-guess himself, leans forward and kisses Gerry, whose eyes fly open. She coughs, pulling away.

“What?” Jon asks, eyes wide.

Gerry shakes their head, laughing again. “No, that’s--don’t--don’t blow drugs straight into someone’s lungs, Jon, keep a little distance.” 

The weed’s starting to sink into Jon’s bloodstream, leaving him buzzing and out of sync with reality. It plays with his mind and perception in a way no one he’s ever spoken with relates to. It’s not quite paranoia, but it always leaves him full of questions. Gerry’s face looks different now than before, beautiful, yeah, but unfamiliar.

However he looks, Jon really wants to kiss him again, but turning thoughts into actions is hard, so he just stares at Gerry’s lips, the small, white scar he somehow never noticed before, the single, cute fang-y tooth.

“What do you want from me?” Jon asks, still staring. It’s a strange way to phrase it. What he means is  _ I would like to be whatever you want around _ , but that’s intense in a way he doesn’t really want to force on anyone. 

“What do I--” Gerry repeats, squinting in confusion. “I don’t want anything from you, Jon. I want you to be safe and sane and living an entity-free life. You refuse to do that. So...nothing.”

“You don’t want me?” Jon asks, voice small.

“Jon--” Gerry says, rubbing her face. “Didn’t we literally talk about this today? Yes. Of course. But we’re going to be--well, partners, I guess, until something scarring enough happens and the ‘I’m destroying evil, look how hot I am’ high wears off, so that doesn’t matter. We also can’t prove you want  _ me _ , so.”

“Oh, I don’t  _ want _ you,” Jon says, recoiling from the implication of the words, forgetting, as always, that the things he says always sound worse than he means them. Gerry’s face flashes pain and confusion.

“Great, Jon, thanks,” Gerry says, half-sneering, staring holes in the ground and taking a long, ferocious hit.

“No, that’s not--” Jon starts, sighing and rubbing his face. “I mean--I mean I don’t  _ want _ anyone. I don’t--I don’t really, uh. I don’t do-- _ that _ . I. God. Fuck.”

“Are you trying to say you don’t want to fuck anyone?” Gerry asks, with a tone reminiscent of a parent trying to interpret their incoherent child.

“Yes,” Jon says, gratefully. “Exactly.”

“Oh,” Gerry says, shrugging. “Well, that’s better than you just savagely stabbing me in the heart in this park, certainly.”

“I just don’t get why you’re the only one who gets to have unquestioned feelings,” Jon says. Gerry hands him the joint and sighs, leaning back against the bench and sliding down a little, legs stretched across the path.

“Because I can’t trust anything anyone says,” Gerry says. “Ever.”

“If you’re afraid of everything, aren’t you letting them win?” Jon asks, and Gerry straightens up again, eyes flashing.

“I’m not afraid of  _ anything _ , Jon, keep your pseudo-intellectual philosophical jerkoff bullshit to yourself,” he says. “Being careful isn’t the same thing as being afraid. Historically, people die on me or turn out to be Leitner-obsessed freaks or avatars. Forgive me for not wanting to tear my soul out and force it down your throat.”

“Why are you so  _ fucking _ mean?” Jon snaps, and Gerry blinks, running a hand back through their hair. 

“I don’t know,” she says. “Get it from my mum, I guess. Add it to the list.”

“I’m sorry,” Jon says, softly.

“What? Why?”

“I shouldn’t have--”

“Jon, I don’t want to be like her,” Gerry says. “Please. Tell me when I’m being--” They cut off, biting their lip. “You know? Fuck it. Fuck all of this. I don’t want to be her, I’m not going to be her. I’m not going to ruin something I want by being fucking paranoid and selfish.”

“Oh…?” Jon says, not processing fast enough to follow the shift.

“I want to be with you and also burn evil books with you,” Gerry says. “I have nothing to offer except the ability to protect you, deep horror lore, and some fluency in dead languages. And this  _ rocking _ body, but you’re not into that. However, and hear me out...please?”

“Oh,” Jon repeats, blinking in surprise. “Ye--yes?”

“...yes?” Gerry asks.

“I, uh, sorry, I’m a bit overwhelmed, actually,” Jon says. “I don’t...generally I like to be sober trying to process how I feel about things, and, um.”

“O--okay,” Gerry says, shrugging, rubbing her eyebrow. “Uh. Sure, yeah, sorry, I...sorry.”

“No need,” Jon says. 

“D’you wanna go back in?” Gerry asks, head twitching in the direction of Jon’s apartment, and Jon nods. It’s a short walk, but he finds himself forgetting the motions, just following Gerry’s old, bloodstained boots. Follows them inside, sort of stands there dazedly staring at them after Gerry takes them off.

Gerry pulls on his arm and shoves him gently into the bed fully clothed, pulling a blanket over him and starting to leave, but Jon reaches out and grabs their arm, somehow, even though his reflexes feel impossibly slow.

“We can share,” he says. Gerry gently breaks his grip.

“Jon, look, you’re not comfortable, so--”

“I never said that,” Jon says. “I don’t have to know how I feel about you to want to be close to you.”

“I…” Gerry starts, then shrugs. “Sure. I guess I can’t argue with that.” He sits down on the bed, then lies on his side, curled up facing Jon. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Jon says. “Sleep well.”

“You know, I think I just might.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, everyone <3 Hope you enjoy!
> 
> CW: suicide reference (it's brief and not dark I just thought I'd warn for it)

When Jon wakes up, dazed and somehow more tired than when he fell asleep, Gerry’s sitting on the windowsill with his knee pulled to his chest, smoking into the cold morning with a cup of coffee on their thigh.

“Morning,” Jon says, through a dry throat. 

“Hey,” Gerry says. “You are  _ godawful _ at sleeping.”

“So I’m told,” Jon says, rubbing his face. “Sorry.”

“Nah,” Gerry says, waving her hand dismissively. “Not like I’m any better. Hey, thanks for letting me stay, but I should probably be going. I don’t wanna lead anything to you.”

“Not this again,” Jon says, the existential exhaustion settling back into its permanent residence in his body. “I thought we’d been over this.”

Gerry bites his lip and sighs. “Yeah. Well. I thought about it more, and...look, Jon, you just have to stay away. You’ve seen what They can do. You’re not meant for this.”

“Fuck off,” Jon says. “No, you’re not doing this again! You’re not going to scare me away, and I’m sick of you trying.”

“Look, I get that you need something meaningful in your life, I really do, but--I don’t know, try dating again, find God, do hard drugs, but this-- _ this _ can’t be it,” Gerry says. “You’re going to get killed.”

“Why do you want to be alone so badly?” Jon asks, pulling his hair back. 

“I don’t,” Gerry says. “I just don’t want the first person I’ve cared about in a long time to die horribly.”

“Not your choice,” Jon says. “Do you have any leads?”

Gerry laughs, somewhat darkly, tilting their chin up and shaking their head in visible frustration and disbelief. “Yeah, I do. But it’s Monday, don’t you have class?”

“No,” Jon says, quickly.

“You’re a shit liar.”

“I’m not going to be able to focus anyway. Haven’t in a long time,” Jon says. “You’re right. I  _ need _ this, and I’d rather do it with you.”

“Jon, I’m not going to keep you from your actual life.”

“Either the entities are going to kill me or I’ll end up doing it myself,” Jon says, setting his jaw and trying to stare Gerry down. 

“You can’t honestly be threatening me with that.”

“Oh, I’m not going to do it on  _ purpose _ , probably, I just…” Jon says, shrugging, rubbing his face. “Sorry, that was a weird, bad thing to say, wasn’t it.”

“Yeah, wasn’t great,” Gerry says. He pauses, then sighs heavily. “The one I have a lead on...I think it’s going to be a bit different than the others. The ones you’ve seen, they were actively dangerous. This one...look, I don’t  _ know _ , but I’m familiar with the entity it belongs to, and I think it’s more gonna be a lasting psychological damage sort of thing.”

“I already have plenty of that. Drop in the ocean,” Jon says, as lightly as he can manage, and Gerry snorts humorlessly.

“Yeah, well, you haven’t come up against Terminus,” Gerry says. “It sort of burrows. Doesn’t really need to get you all at once.”

“I’m not afraid of dying,” Jon says. Gerry gives him an inscrutable, sort of sad look.

“We’ll see,” she says. “Thinking about it in the abstract is a little different than dealing with the End.”

“Where is it?”

“Buried in a library,” Gerry says. “Too many Leitners end up where anyone could find them.”

“Does it have a title, or do we just have to...feel it out?” Jon asks.

“Oh, no, it has a title,” Gerry says, smirking. “You’ll love this. Not at all heavy-handed.”

“Don’t leave me in suspense,” Jon deadpans, feeling a jolt of excited anticipation in his stomach despite himself.

“The Encyclopedia of Death,” Gerry says, spreading their hands in a showy flourish.

“Huh,” Jon says. “That  _ is  _ a bit much, isn’t it?”

“Sure is.” Gerry sighs, running a hand back through his hair. “Let me buy you breakfast before we go hunting, yeah?”

“I’m not  _ destitute _ , I can--”

“Let. Me.”

“Fine,” Jon says, a smile flickering across his face at Gerry’s intensity. 

“Great. Thank you for being flexible on one fucking thing, I appreciate it,” Gerry says. “You truly obstinate, stressful fucker.”

“I’m categorically  _ not _ a fucker,” Jon says, smiling as Gerry closes her eyes and sighs in frustration.

“Never mind, you can pay,” they say, sliding off the windowsill. 

“Where’s your honor? Not sticking to your word?” Jon asks.

“Hey, don’t slander me like that, I am an upstanding lady-slash-gentleman.”

“My apologies, good sir-slash-madam,” Jon says, forcing himself out of bed and curtsying. Gerry laughs, shaking his head.

“You’re forgiven, dashing peasant. Change and meet me outside.”

“Oh, what, is the slept-in sweater dress look not good enough for you?” Jon asks, yawning.

“It’s phenomenal,” Gerry says, drily. “I’ll see you outside.”

* * *

The library Gerry takes them to is unremarkable. It’s carpeted, small, and dimly lit, with cramped shelves and disinterested librarians. When they get in, Gerry inhales deeply, apparently savoring the smell of old, neglected books with a small, almost contented smile on their face.

It’s fiercely endearing and Jon has to immediately resist the urge to affectionately make fun of her for it (he’s been told that what he considers good-natured teasing frequently comes out as just plain mean without his input or knowledge). 

“Right,” Gerry says, once he snaps out of it. “Time to find a Leitner in a bookstack.”

“You call  _ me _ a nerd?” Jon mutters, and Gerry laughs. 

“Never said I wasn’t being a hypocrite.”

“Shouldn’t be that hard,” Jon says. “If it’s an encyclopedia, wouldn’t it be in the reference section with the other encyclopedias?”

Gerry snaps their fingers, raising an eyebrow. “That’s a good shout. Would’ve taken me at least a half hour of pointless searching to think of that.”

“This is why you need a partner,” Jon says, with a smile that he hopes is as smug as he feels. Gerry rolls her eyes and gags themself.

“What a fucking white knight you are.”

They find the reference materials and start digging through encyclopedias. Jon gets distracted by a first edition Oxford Classical Dictionary and leans against a shelf skimming through it for about five minutes before Gerry flicks him in the side of the face and makes him look again.

The spines start to blur together in his mind, and he starts to forget what he’s looking for, just runs his hand over the books and tries to keep his mind off Gerry’s back pressing his as she does the same behind him. He’s still thinking about last night, about Gerry telling him he wants to be with him.

It kind of bewilders him, the thought that  _ anyone _ would want to be with him, especially someone who’s seen him at his absolute lowest like Gerry has, repeatedly. He’s conscious of his own lack of self-worth, but that doesn’t magically give him more. He just doesn’t understand it, and thinks maybe...maybe Gerry doesn’t actually know what they want, and maybe staying distant is the best thing for both of them. Jon doesn’t particularly want to get his heart broken again. Georgie’s still a gaping wound.

He just also doesn’t know how to tell Gerry all of that in a way that wouldn’t either hurt her or make her wildy belligerent. He’s trying to find words when Gerry does a sharp little gasp and says “Gotcha!”, pulling a book off the shelf. 

“So we just...take it?” Jon whispers, trying not to alert the librarians, not that they really seem like they care.

“Yeah,” Gerry says, shrugging. “Not like it’ll be in the system.” He crouches and shoves it in his bag without even a cursory glance around. Jon’s anxiety spikes, and he quickly looks to see if anyone’s watching.

No one is, but he gets that spine-tingling sensation of being watched all the same. “Do you feel that?” he asks, softly. 

Gerry stands up and slides their bag over their shoulder. “Feel what?”

“That--like someone’s watching us,” Jon says. 

“Oh, Jon, we’re  _ ceaselessly _ being watched,” Gerry says, smirking.

“What?” Jon asks, genuinely alarmed at the nonchalance of the response.

“That was an  _ excellent _ joke, do you really not--no, of course you don’t,” Gerry says. “Look, it’s fine. It’s just the Eye.”

“It’s been watching me for weeks,” Jon says.

“Yep, it does that,” Gerry says. He’s completely blase about the whole thing, and it makes Jon want to fucking  _ scream _ . “It won’t hurt us. Don’t worry. It’s just watching.”

“Somehow, that isn’t reassuring,” Jon says, hugging himself as Gerry leads the way out of the library. 

“Somehow, I’m not surprised,” she says, crossing the street to a park. They sit crosslegged in the grass, pulling the book back out of their bag.

“Wait, what are you doing?” Jon asks, panic spiking again, reaching for the black-bound book, trying to protect Gerry, but Gerry pulls it away.

“Jon, relax, the End--look, I’ve been curious about this one in particular. I’ve heard stories for years, it’s--” Gerry cuts himself off and sighs, handing it to Jon. “You look.”

“ _ No _ ,” Jon says, recoiling from it. “Not again, absolutely not.”

“It won’t fuck you up the same way the Spiral did, I promise,” Gerry says. 

“Tell me what it does first,” Jon says, tentatively taking the book.

“Allegedly, it lists the deaths of everyone you’ll ever know,” Gerry says, absently playing with her septum piercing. 

“Oh,” Jon says.

“Yeah.”

“Why would you want to read that?” Jon asks, squinting in bewilderment. He can’t imagine anything good coming of knowing the deaths of people you haven’t even met yet, just carrying that knowledge with you, hoping that somehow things change.

“Really? I thought you were  _ desperate _ to know  _ everything _ ,” Gerry says. 

“I…” Jon starts, considering it, then realizes he’s been redirected. “Wait, I asked you a question.”

“My dad,” Gerry says, shrugging. “Nothing earthshattering. I mean, I know Mary killed him, I just--well, I don’t _ actually  _ know, and I’d like to…” They trail off. 

“I get that,” Jon says, and his mind drifts to his own parents. Wonders what their last thoughts were, wonders...wonders a lot of things, really. The book almost falls open in his hands, seemingly independent of his input, and he brushes hair behind his ears, fingers trailing over the table of contents, scores of names, familiar and unfamiliar.  _ Barker, Georgie. Blackwood, Martin _ . The list goes on, until he spots  _ Keay, Gerard  _ after  _ James, Sasha _ , and he twitches slightly.

He shouldn’t read Gerry’s death, not with him sitting inches away, but he feels sort of magnetically pulled towards it anyway. He flips to the listed page, numbly, and reads.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's gonna be fiiiiiiine, I'm sure.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is Short and not quite what I wanted it to be but...it is what I got. I tried.
> 
> CW: cancer mentions, death

_ Keay, Gerard. 1985-2013. Cause of death: untreated brain cancer.  _

Jon barely has a chance to process the words, to calculate how short a life that is, to--before something is gaping in his mind, a wide, yawning abyss, and there is cold fear in his heart as he falls, the only thing he can feel the book in his hands.

He’s in a hospital room, and the world blurs around him, pain white-hot, thoughts high-speed car accidents, colliding and smashing each other unrecognizable. His body’s numb. Nausea twists and tangles his guts. The End beckons, and he’s  _ scared _ and he’s  _ alone _ and he can’t form the words to express that and no one would listen anyway. He takes sharp breaths and then he doesn’t and then--

He’s back in the park, book slammed shut, retching into the grass, Gerry’s hand twisted in his sweater. “Jon,  _ shit _ , you okay?” they’re asking, but Jon’s ears ring so loudly he can barely hear it.

“No, I--I died, I--” Jon says, gulping air. He shrugs Gerry’s hand off, stares at the ground under them because he can’t look at Gerry’s face, not now, not  _ knowing _ . “That was horrible.”

Gerry nods. His shadow shifts closer to Jon’s. “Yeah, I expected it might be.”

“Cruel to have me go first.”

“You’re my jank guinea pig,” Gerry says. “Whose death did you…? If you’re okay talking about it.”

Jon just shakes his head, doesn’t look up. He can’t tell Gerry. He  _ can’t _ . That’s not the kind of thing you can live knowing about. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Jon, look at me,” Gerry says, softly. “Hey.”

The lie comes easy. “My grandmother,” he says.

“The one who raised you?” Gerry asks, and Jon nods. “Bad death?”

“Cancer,” Jon says. At least the  _ how _ isn’t a lie, even if the  _ who _ is. Half-truths are easier than complete fabrications.

Gerry hisses through their teeth. “Always thought that’d be the worst way to go. Corruption and the End both feasting on you for fucking ages before you finally die. I’m sorry, Jon. How long does she have?”

“Six years,” he says, continuing with the truths, trying to make it easier, trying not to think about anything Gerry just said. 

“Well. Make the best of it, I guess? She doesn’t--will you miss her?” Gerry asks, scratching her neck. “Is that--is that a horrid thing to ask? It just doesn’t seem like--like, you know.”

“Like I love her?” Jon asks, and even though they’re not even talking about his grandmother, he’s still offended at the implication. “Of course I do.”

“Right. Yeah. Sorry.”

“Yes, I’ll miss her,” Jon says, and he means  _ you _ , but he can’t say that, so. 

Gerry squeezes his shoulder. “Well. I guess it’s my turn. Wish me luck.” He slides the book away from Jon.

“Are you--are you  _ sure _ ?” Jon asks. “It’s...it’s really bad.”

“I’m sure,” Gerry says, opening to the table of contents, fingers trailing over the list of names. “I have to know. Where-- _ ah.  _ Delano.” They flip to the page, and--

It’s odd to describe, watching. They read the few words printed under the name, and then she just goes...blank. Their eyes fade and their body seizes like they’re dying in front of Jon. It’s disturbing and captivating and Jon hates it with a passion but can’t look away.

They come out of it coughing, a wet, awful sound, like there’s something in their chest. Their eyes are still far-distant, and Jon feels panic clawing at his stomach when he gently shakes Gerry and she doesn’t even blink, just coughs harder. 

Slowly, the tension eases slightly out of their body, and they take a long, rattling breath. “Are you alright?” Jon asks, softly, and Gerry snaps back like nothing happened.

“Yeah,” he says, all the emotion drained from his voice. “Yeah, fine.”

“How--how did--” Jon starts, and Gerry scowls.

“None of your fucking business.” They open the book again, brushing hair behind their ear, and scan the table of contents a second time.

“What are you--you’re not looking at  _ another _ , are you? You can’t--” Jon says.

“What, do you want another go?” Gerry snaps, looking back up at him and shoving the book his way. “By all means, go ahead, we can take turns.”

“ _ No _ ,” Jon breathes, horrified at the thought of putting himself through that a second time.

“That’s what I thought,” Gerry says. His fingers trail down the page, then the opposite page, and then they stop. “Oh, that’s quite a run.” She opens to a page, scans, and then snaps back into that blank state. Jon’s breath catches watching. This time they jolt wildly, several times.

“Gerry, you can’t--” he starts, when Gerry comes out of it again, looking a little less shaken, but she doesn’t bother listening, just opens the book again. “ _ Gerry _ .”

“ _ What _ ?” Gerry snaps, not even looking up. Jon tries to think of some compelling reason for them to stop doing this, but before his brain catches up with him, Gerry’s tranced out again. This one lasts a long time. She sort of just stares into space, eyes fading and dying. Jon can tell when the book lets go of her, but it still takes her a long moment to come back.

Jon finds his argument. “By doing this to yourself over and over, aren’t you just feeding--the End? Terminus? Whatever?”

“Yeah,” Gerry says, dazedly. “Sure am.”

“Then  _ why _ ?”

“Guess I’m like you,” he says. “I have to know.” He blinks out of it, shakes his head wildly, and shudders. It spasms through his whole body. She meets Jon’s eyes, and there’s something--well, it almost looks like fear in her eyes.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Jon asks, softly.

“No,” Gerry says, not looking away from him. “No, I really don’t.”

“We should burn it, Gerry, I mean, it’s--” Jon starts, trying to pull the book away from Gerry, but their grip tightens around it.

“No, n-n-” they start, pulling it back, shuddering. “Don’t you see how--how  _ useful _ this is? Jon, I mean, we can--we can  _ save _ people, it’s--it’s like uh, that movie with Tom Cruise, but not shit.”

“No, we can’t,” Jon says, soft but firm, because he’s read a number of tragedies. Enough to know that knowing fate is never enough to change it. “You know we can’t, Gerry. Anything--it would all just end up pushing things into place.”

“The world’s going to end, Jon,” Gerry says, face set. 

“Then it’s going to end.”

“Really? You’re fine with that?”

“ _ No _ , but we can’t change it, we can’t change  _ any _ of this, you’re going to--” 

Jon stops himself before the sentence shoves its way out of his throat, the one that ends  _ die of a brain tumor before age thirty and there’s nothing anyone can do _ , and swallows it back hard.

“We have to  _ try _ ,” Gerry says, desperately, and Jon feels for them. He really does. It’s strange to see Gerry, so fucking cynical, so in control, shattered like this. “My dad died horribly, and--no one else deserves that.”

“We can’t fix this.”

“You’re fucking new here, Jon, you don’t get to say what we can and can’t--and it’s not  _ we _ anyway, I mean, if you don’t want to help people then you can  _ fuck _ off, and--” Gerry hugs the book closer every second, and the picture of what’s happening here starts to click into place.

“Gerry,” Jon says, as calmly as he can. “We have to burn the book.”

“ _ No _ ! It can help us!”

“You only think that because it’s in your head.”

“You don’t know  _ anything _ ,” Gerry says.

“It’s trying to protect itself, like the Spiral book did,” Jon says. “I think. It’s convincing you there’s something that can be done so it doesn’t get destroyed, and so it can keep making you afraid, but you can’t let it. You have to let go."

“She stabbed him with garden shears,” Gerry says, a complete non-sequitur, eyes shining with tears.

“That’s horrible,” Jon says. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s...fine. It happened a long time ago.”

“Let’s go home and burn the book.” Jon pushes to his feet, and reaches a hand down for Gerry, who takes a shuddering breath, book still pressed tightly to his chest. She takes Jon’s hand, lets him pull her up, and wraps her arm around him, under his, and presses into his side.

“Before we burn it…” Gerry starts, as they walk, slowly and unsteadily. 

“Yeah?”

“Could you read my death? I just--I need to know.”

“No,” Jon says, maybe too quickly. “No, I’m not going to do that.”

“Okay,” Gerry breathes. “Sure.”

Somehow, they make it back to Jon’s flat, mostly in silence, and Jon manages to pry the book out of Gerry’s iron grip. He lights it in his kitchen sink, and Gerry seems to relax substantially as it crumbles to ash.

“Can I kiss you?” Jon asks, softly, taking Gerry’s hand as she watches the flames.

“What, the unhinged meltdown turned you on?” Gerry asks, a little weakly, raising an eyebrow.

“As much as anything does,” Jon says, and Gerry breathes a small laugh through his nose.

“Sure. You have my permission.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi again!! Sorry for the month-long gap, life has been pretty crazy. But! The time away from this fic gave me a chance to figure out where I'm going, and I have a really clear path for the rest of it, so I hope to be more consistent! Hope you enjoy.

They’ve burned about two dozen Leitners in six-odd months, and if Jon’s honest, he’s never been happier in his life than he is this morning, curled up on his fire escape smoking with his head on Gerry’s chest. It’s summer, and far too warm, and he’s  _ good _ at something, and he has someone to be good at it  _ with _ .

It hasn’t been perfect. Lots of brushes with death, lots of fights over stupid shit exacerbated by said brushes with death, but also a lot of comfort and contentment and the thrilling, overwhelming rush of heroism. Jon’s in love again. Only time in his life other than Georgie. He doesn’t know for certain, because he’s no better at reading people than ever, but he’s fairly sure Gerry’s also in love with him. He can let himself hope, at least, and that’s something.

On the other hand, though, something’s been--creeping up on Jon. A dawning sort of horror. He’s started knowing things he shouldn’t. Which sounds ridiculous, when he thinks it out like that, but in the moments where he gets flashes of insight and pure information, it feels...it feels unnatural. He’s sure...he’s  _ pretty _ sure they’re things he knew and forgot, most of the time, like the exact population of Prague several decades ago, or precisely how many scars Gerry has on their body. It’s still odd, yes, sure, but there’s a lot of oddity in the world, and he’s not going to let this consume him. Not yet, at least.

There’s always new leads. He and Gerry worked out a system whereby Jon would go to class and do his fucking homework and be good, and at the end of the week, Gerry would take him hunting. Since there’s no school at present, and hasn’t been for a bit, Gerry’s been less of an asshole about that requirement. Jon works part-time at, ironically, a bookstore, and has plenty of free time.

“You still up for hunting today?” Gerry asks, also smoking, other hand in Jon’s hair. Her voice is rough. She was out last night. Jon doesn’t ever ask where they go when they go out, but she usually comes back drunk and always a bit ragged. He has a few guesses. Most of them include Mary.

“Are  _ you _ ?” Jon asks, genuinely, trying to be considerate, but Gerry takes offense to it, and takes his hand out of Jon’s hair. The pressure was comforting and he instantly misses it.

“Yes, Jon, of fucking course,” Gerry says, rubbing her face. “I told you about this one.”

“Is it, the, uh…” Jon tries to remember, can’t, for a brief flailing moment, and then--lightning strike. Perfect clarity of knowledge. “The Hunt one?”

“Yeah,” Gerry says. “You haven’t met the Hunt before. Not directly.”

“Is it--do you know what the book does?” Jon asks, putting his cigarette out and tilting his head all the way back to stare up at Gerry’s chin.

“Nah,” Gerry says. “Can’t say I’ve come across a Hunt Leitner, actually. This one’s a big deal. Uncharted waters. Some boring lowercase-H-hunter has it.”

“So we have to break in somewhere?” Jon asks, sighing and trying to psych himself up. They’ve stolen things a number of times by now, but he never gets any less uncomfortable with it. Never stops feeling like every sin is being watched and recorded to be used against him at a later date.

“Yeah, but don’t worry, it’s at his ‘ _ lodge _ ’,” Gerry says, complete with airquotes, “and apparently he’s in Germany or some shit, so we’re safe, no danger of running into him.”

“Apparently, or--” Jon starts, and Gerry sighs.

“You really don’t trust me,” they say, hair falling in Jon’s face as they shake their head.

“It’s not that I don’t trust  _ you _ , just, your information has a tendency to be--”

“How many times do I have to apologize for the Home Alone incident? I had  _ no idea _ . Who leaves a kid that young by herself, and  _ how _ did she--”

“I wasn’t even thinking about that one,” Jon says, lightly, and Gerry closes her mouth so fast her teeth click. “We have a  _ lot _ of ‘incidents’, Gerry, that’s all I’m saying, we should just--”

“Be careful?” Gerry asks, barely holding in a burst of laughter. “Oh, Mr. ‘Throw Myself Into The Vast Because It Looks Sort Of Fun’ wants us to be careful?”

“Yes, and I was wrong, it  _ does  _ happen, but let me finish.”

“Fair, sorry.”

“I was saying we should just--we should do a stakeout, or something. Make  _ absolutely _ sure the hunter’s gone before we break in, and avoid getting a faceful of buckshot.”

“Yeah. Sounds reasonable,” Gerry says. “It’s a few hours drive, we should get going.”

“Broad daylight robbery?” Jon asks, yawning as he stretches up and musters the willpower to sit up and free Gerry.

“It’s in the middle of fucking nowhere, mate, I wouldn’t sweat that,” Gerry says, pulling his hair back and standing up, massaging the spot on his leg where Jon cut off his circulation, and ducking back through the window into the flat. 

“Again, that’s what you said about--”

Gerry leans his head back out the window and fixes Jon with a flat glare. “The Home Alone incident was  _ barely _ an incident, Jon. She was our friend by the end, there, and we got what we came for, and eventually you’re gonna have to stop using it against me.”

“I wonder how she’s doing,” Jon says. “I hope we didn’t traumatize her too badly.”

“We definitely did,” Gerry says, snorting. “And if  _ we _ didn’t, watching a room of her house be impossibly flooded with worm-filled dirt did.”

“Fair point.” Jon sighs. “Well. Let’s go, then.”

“You just wanna do a stakeout so you can play cop in your head, don’t you,” Gerry says. “All your repressed fascist fantasies. We can get coffee and--”

“Shut up,” Jon says, smiling and shaking his head, gently shoving Gerry back so he can get through the window. “Fine, if you want to rush in and get shot,  _ you _ can go first.”

“I always do.”

“Go first or want to get shot?”

“Yes.”

“You worry me sometimes,” Jon says, as a joke, because it’s true, and because Gerry doesn’t accept the truth unless it’s a joke about ninety percent of the time. 

“Ditto, babe,” Gerry says, with that crooked, vaguely devilish smirk, and kisses Jon quickly on the cheek. “Right, road trip!”

*

The so-called hunting lodge is really just a small cabin at the end of a long dirt road in the woods. It’s been a long drive, and Gerry’s whined the whole way through about needing to get out and stretch, so they park in front of the house, which looks unoccupied. Gerry bursts out the driver’s side, dramatically collapsing to the ground, pushing himself back up, and stretching.

Jon stays in the car, feet on the dash, watching the house. Something keeps flashing up in his mind, an indescribable, creeping sort of wrongness. He can’t put words to it, but it pounds in his chest.

“Something’s wrong,” he tells Gerry, through the still-open car door. She turns back to him and raises an eyebrow.

“Wrong?” they ask. “How so?”

“It’s just--just a feeling, one of those sinking feelings,” he says, not brave or mean enough to add  _ like the one I got when I met you _ . 

“What, like anxiety?” Gerry asks, batting her eyelashes innocently, her tried-and-true ‘I’m an asshole but you wanna kiss me, don’t you’ expression.

“Yes, like anxiety, but like  _ turbo _ -anxiety,” Jon says, and Gerry snorts.

“Jon, you’re a turbo-anxious person.”

“Look, isn’t this all very--low-budget horror?” Jon asks. “I don’t want you to be murdered, Gerry, I really don’t.”

“Who says  _ I’ll _ get murdered first?” Gerry says, scoffing. “I’m the final girl, baby,  _ not _ you.”

“I’d like to think I’m the one that survives by being smart and making good choices,” Jon says. Gerry snorts again.

“It’s cute that you think you’ve ever made a good choice.”

“I’m with you,” Jon says, in an attempt at sweetness that Gerry immediately rejects.

“Yes. Exactly. Your point?”

Jon sighs. “I just...I just think it’s  _ wrong _ in there. Something’s  _ wrong _ .”

“You said,” Gerry says. “Come on.”

“Fine,” Jon says, sighing and getting out of the car, nervously trailing Gerry like a shadow that doesn’t quite know what it’s doing.

“Would you like to do the honors?” Gerry asks, brushing his hair back behind his ear and looking at Jon, gesturing showily at the door.

“You know I wouldn't.”

“I keep hoping,” Gerry says, sighing. “But I guess that would require you developing hand-eye coordination.”

“You’re  _ mean _ today.”

“Today?” Gerry asks, smirking. Jon closes his eyes, shakes his head, and kisses Gerry briefly.

“Get at it, final girl.”

Gerry sets at picking the lock. It’s an obviously rote, highly practiced motion, and the sound of tumblers clicking zones Jon out. He stares blankly at the door, eyes unfocused, scanning the dark wood, until--a flash of darkness behind it, and heavy breathing, and inhuman snarling--

He jolts and steps back, hand clenching Gerry’s shoulder, pulling on the strap of her dress. 

“Jesus, Jon,  _ what _ ?” they ask, looking up with wide eyes.

“There’s something in there, Gerry,” Jon breathes, afraid to make too much noise suddenly.

“Jon,” Gerry says, standing up, putting his hands on the sides of Jon’s face. “While I believe you, I think maybe--”

“You think I’m being paranoid,” Jon says, flatly.

“Look, you  _ do _ have a history--”

“Why is this one so  _ important _ to you?”

“We drove all the way out here!” Gerry says, throwing their hands up.

“That’s not all,” Jon says.

“It’s…” Gerry sighs into her hand, staring at the ground. “It sort of calls to me. The--the Hunt, I mean. The book.”

“Calls  _ how _ ?”

“I can’t explain it, just--it wants me to find it, so--so I have to fucking burn it,” Gerry says, shrugging. “So let’s burn it.”

“Okay,” Jon says, softly. 

“Don’t be scared, have I  _ ever _ steered you wrong?” Gerry asks, with a wicked grin and a wink, and crouches again, going back to working at the lock.

They get it open, and push on the door. It swings open, and they pull something out of their boot before they stand up. A knife.

“How long have you had that,” Jon says, looking at it in dull horror.

“You’re scared about this one, we might as well have a weapon,” Gerry says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Maybe--well, maybe it is, but Jon has no idea how many times she’s brought that with them, why she hasn’t ever brought it out before, or if she’s ever had to use it.

“Gerry, I really--”

“Which is it, Jon?” Gerry snaps, and Jon shuts his mouth fast enough that he bites his lip by accident. “Alright. Let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone has Hunt!Gerry feelings I absolutely demand you talk to me about them


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay this one is a bit intense--hope you enjoy, though! I've never written anything...quite to this effect before, so I hope it works even remotely.
> 
> CW: violence, death, blood, biting, arguing

The house is dark, and Jon’s too afraid to breathe, hand clenched in the back of Gerry’s dress as he more or less storms in, completely ignoring all of Jon’s concerns. Jon matches their speed, but only because he doesn’t want to let go, afraid of being separated from them.

Gerry clearly seems to know where she’s going, making some sort of beeline straight for the second floor of the house. Jon nearly trips on the stairs, still unwilling to loosen his grip even a little, which Gerry throws him an irritated look for. His knuckles are white around the knife’s grip, and Jon’s anxiety is so extreme he starts feeling like he’s going to vomit.

They reach the landing, and Gerry pauses a moment, cocks their head, and then takes a sharp left.

He pauses in front of a door, and tries the handle. Locked from the outside. Gerry makes a confused noise, twists the lock, and opens the door.

She leads Jon into a room that looks sort of like an office, but--well, the taxidermied heads are about what Jon would expect from a hunter, but the deep gouges in the walls...those are something else. Jon knows when he sees them that they weren’t made by animals, but rather by--by the hunter, and he doesn’t know how he knows that, but it unfolds in front of him as he thinks at it all the same.

“Gerry,” he breathes, the sound nearly completely caught in a blocked, terrified throat. “Gerry, we have to--”

He can’t look away from the marks in the walls, wondering why-- _ why _ a person would do that, and then Gerry makes a  _ sound _ , strangled and inscrutable, and Jon jolts away, following their gaze to the body on the floor.

“Oh,” Jon says, letting go of Gerry as he sinks to the ground, hands braced behind his head. “Fuck. Oh, fuck.  _ Fuck _ .”

“Is he dead?” Gerry asks, voice smaller than Jon’s ever heard it.

“I don’t  _ know _ ,” Jon shouts back, voice cracking and breaking, but he realizes it’s a lie as he says it--he  _ does _ know, and the answer is--but before he can tell Gerry, they’ve already approached the body, and poked it, and--

It grabs back, and Gerry screams, dropping the knife in surprise. It clatters on the wood floor, and Jon knows that he should probably dive for it, but he can’t move. He finds it isn’t fear paralyzing him, though it  _ should _ be, but...curiosity? 

Either way. The not-dead man is gripping Gerry’s wrist tight enough that she can’t break free. He doesn’t seem to have enough strength to get to his feet, and Jon notes the blood under his ruined nails--the gouges were made by him, certainly, but--

“Kill me,” the hunter says, through a throat that sounds absolutely destroyed.

“Wh--” Gerry starts, but the hunter grabs tighter and twists, and Gerry goes silent, face contorting in pain. 

“ _ Do it! _ ” he shouts, and Gerry opens and closes her mouth, nodding, scrabbling for the knife with their free hand, not looking away from the hunter. 

“Gerry, you can’t--” Jon starts, and in response, the hunter bites Gerry’s arm. It looks like he gets deep, the sound is horrific, and he tears flesh away, mouth bloody. Gerry manages not to scream again. 

“Shut the fuck up, Jon,” Gerry says, through breaths like they’re hyperventilating. She raises the knife in her left hand and falters a moment.

The hunter goes to bite him again, and Gerry brings the knife down, catching the man right in the throat. He convulses and lets go of Gerry’s wrist.

Gerry sits back, visibly dazed, and Jon finds he can move again, though he isn’t sure he wants to. He’s never seen anyone die before, and he can’t look away. Blood spurts out, soaking the floor, and the man convulses, hand around the knife in his neck, and then he just...ceases.

Jon’s not in his body. He’s completely dissociated, totally numb, realizes he’s crying but feels none of it. Feels nothing at all. All the shit he’s done with Gerry, every dangerous encounter, everything, it--none of it--nothing was  _ ever _ like this.

“We have to--we have to call the police,” he hears himself say. “Gerry, you need to--to go to--”

“I’m fine,” Gerry snaps back, pressing their hand over the bleeding bite wound on their arm. “I need to--help me find the book.”

“ _ No _ ,” Jon says.

“The fuck do you mean  _ no _ ?” Gerry doesn’t look at Jon, just keeps his eyes fixed on the body. “I just--I just  _ killed a man _ , Jon, we’re not leaving without the book.”

“You can’t be serious, you--you can’t--we have to--”

“Fine, I’ll find it.” Gerry finally turns her head to Jon, and her eyes are burning. “Fucking sit there and have a panic attack, that’s all you’re good for, anyway.”

“Fuck you,” Jon says, breathlessly, because he can’t think of anything better to say than that.

“Sorry,” Gerry says, blinking. “Shit. I’m sorry. I didn’t--”

“Yes, you did,” Jon says.

“I...I’ve never…” Gerry says, pulling on their hair with a bloody hand. “We have to burn whatever did this, Jon, we  _ have _ to.”

“What  _ did _ it do to him?” Jon asks.

“I don’t know,” Gerry says, shaking her head. “I...I guess we’ll never know.” He slowly forces himself to his feet, and immediately staggers hard into a wall, fingers briefly tracing over the gouges in the wallpaper.

Jon can’t get up yet. Knows his entire body would be numb, wouldn’t want to support him. He drags himself over to the dead hunter on his knees, hands ghosting over him. He doesn’t touch. This is a crime scene, now, and they’re already--fuck, they have to clean everything.

“Your knife,” Jon says, distantly.

“Leave it,” Gerry says, getting their footing and searching the room, tossing things everywhere.

“What are you  _ doing _ ?” 

“Looking for the Leitner.”

“No, this--there’s a  _ dead man _ , Gerry, they’ll--if the police come in here and look for--for  _ evidence _ , which they  _ will _ , because someone’s been fucking  _ killed _ , they’ll know we were--” Jon starts, and Gerry hurls an ugly vase in his general direction, dead, rotting flowers flying out.

“ _ I know _ ,” she shrieks, wrapping her bloody arm around herself and letting a single, massive sob rack her body. “But I have to--we--”

“We can burn the place down,” Jon says, horrified as the words come out of him, but it’s the only smart move left. “With the book in it. You don’t have to find it, we can just--we can just burn it and leave, and then--and then no one will know, and--”

“I have to find it, Jon,” Gerry says, and Jon swallows hard, knowing he can’t stop them. “And then--and then we’ll burn it. All of it.”

“Okay,” Jon says, softly, because he doesn’t know what else to do. “Gerry, uh, I--I love you.”

“Fuck off,” Gerry says. “You’re going to leave me the second we get back to civilization.”

That  _ would _ be the smart move, wouldn’t it? 

“I’m not.” Jon shakes his head, and finds that it’s true. “I wouldn’t.”

“You  _ should _ .”

“Yes. But I’m not going to.”

“So you  _ are _ an idiot,” Gerry says.

“Apparently.” Jon nods, and against all odds, manages to get to his feet. “I’ll help you look.”

Gerry turns a bit soft, and spares Jon a glance. “Thank you,” she says, quietly. 

After--well, time doesn’t mean much anymore, so Jon doesn’t know how long it is before they find the book, wedged firmly into the mouth of a stuffed bear. It doesn’t even look that dangerous, just field notes from some anthropologist in search of a lost, ancient society, and Jon’s almost tempted to read it, to see--to see what in it could  _ do that _ to a person. Maybe the hunter just--just had some kind of horrible breakdown, and it had nothing to do with the book.

He knows how unlikely that is, though, so he restrains the impulse. “Are we going to burn everything now?” he asks.

Gerry, without answering, flips the book open, blood from his arm gently trickling down onto the pages. Jon slaps it out of his hands, and Gerry sort of snarls back at him--not abnormal, though, Gerry does that sometimes, so Jon’s not any more concerned than he was minutes ago.

“It’s not even a Leitner,” Gerry says, flatly, showing Jon the bookplate. 

“Then--then that’s not it? We keep looking?” Jon asks.

“No, that’s...this is what I was supposed to find,” Gerry says, shrugging, shaking her head. “I don’t--we should take it with us, if--”

“ _ No _ , look what--”

“It’s not a fucking Leitner, Jon, so it probably didn’t do that to him, it--”

“Can’t there be cursed books that aren’t--”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, you don’t know  _ anything _ about--”

“ _ Fine _ !” Jon shouts, and Gerry stops talking, nodding once and sighing.

“Thank you.”

They burn the place behind them, and the book sits on the dashboard for the duration of their dead-silent drive back to Oxford.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sure this is all completely fine and nothing at all bad will happen.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoy! This one is basically just dumbasses in love having an emotionally fraught conversation.
> 
> CW: none, I'm pretty sure!

“When are you finally going to say you told me so?” Jon asks, as Gerry closes the book.

“Right now,” Gerry says. “I was waiting til we got to the very end, just in case.”

“Might as well do the honors,” Jon says, sighing and scratching the back of his neck, leaning out the window to exhale smoke.

“I told you so,” Gerry says, and Jon wants to, in equal parts, slap and kiss his smug, bastard-y face. “Look, I’m...I didn’t want it to be  _ nothing _ , Jon, we--I mean--I--”

“Yeah,” Jon says, and a nervous, hysterical laugh bursts out of him. “Yeah, I’m fucking aware, Gerry.” He scratches his neck harder, takes a long drag. “I don’t...do we just...move on? Go to the next one?”

“I guess, just--I don’t  _ understand _ , I felt like this was  _ it _ , the--it led me straight to it, and I wish I knew  _ why _ .”

“I don’t know,” Jon says. He flicks the cigarette out the window and rubs his face with an open palm. 

“Of course  _ you  _ don’t,” Gerry says. 

“Gerry.”

“Sorry,” Gerry says, reflexively. “I—yeah. Sorry.” He sighs heavily. “I don’t know. You’re smarter than me. More educated, at least. Do you—did you  _ get _ anything out of that book?”

“I mean, it was...fairly literal,” Jon says. “Primary sources tend to be, it—well, he could’ve been unreliable, especially at the end there. It seemed like he wasn’t really...like what he found might not have been real, like he was hallucinating from lack of basic self-maintenance and obsession. He was probably ill, or...I suppose it could’ve been the Hunt? You’d know better than me. Maybe the entire thing was fiction. I have no idea. I tried googling him and couldn’t find anything.”

“I don’t know,” Gerry says, pulling her hair back. “I don’t know  _ anything,  _ Jon, I barely paid attention, I...I can’t stop thinking about…”

“I know,” Jon says. He closes his eyes to try to stop the image from flashing up in his mind, but he can’t, the darkness just makes it more vivid, so he opens them again, and all he can focus on is the bandage wrapped tight around Gerry’s arm. 

“How did my mum—how did  _ Mary _ manage to—to do that to people? To—to someone she ostensibly  _ loved _ ?” Gerry shakes their head. 

“I have no idea,” Jon says, softly. “We have to—we have to move on, though, we can’t let ourselves  _ dwell _ , or—or it’ll destroy us.”

“You know what the best way to stop dwelling on anything would be?” Gerry asks, a genuinely dangerous-looking smirk spreading across his face. “Find your book.”

“Mr. Spider?”

“Yeah.”

“You said you’d do that months ago,” Jon says.

“Yeah, well, I wasn’t in love with you then, and we didn’t need a distraction then,” Gerry says, waving a hand. “So?”

“A-alright,” Jon says. “Are you sure that’s—“

“Absolutely,” Gerry says. “And after that we’ll get rid of Mary.”

“Ah,” Jon says, wordlessly opening and closing his mouth a few times. “I don’t—I’m not sure that—“

“I am,” Gerry says, lightly. “You don’t have to help. One thing at a time.”

“So...how does one go about tracking a book that hasn’t been seen for twelve years?” Jon asks.

“Hasn’t been seen by  _ you _ ,” Gerry corrects. “Leitners feed their entities, they don’t tend to just...go dormant. Not if there’s still people to be fucked with.”

The thought of other people being drawn into that nonexistent doorway on invisible strings, on a conveyor belt to be devoured by an insatiable, horrifying monster--well, it makes Jon a bit ill, if he’s honest. He’d sort of thought it would just...disappear after it ate the boy whose name he  _ still _ can’t remember, and the obvious realization that it would have absolutely no reason to do that staggers him more than he expected.

“So--so it could be anywhere.”

“Yep,” Gerry says, popping the ‘p’ hard. “But I guess the place you had your encounter’s as good a starting point as any.”

Jon laughs nervously, the thought of Gerry and him staying in his childhood home with his grandmother flashing through his mind, absurd and unavoidable. He imagines the tight scowl on his grandmother’s face, the way she’d quietly, passive-aggressively eviscerate them. 

Thinking of Gerry in any part of his hometown is strange, actually. They wouldn’t fit. Like a poorly photoshopped picture. Not that Jon was ever a perfect fit, but still.

“You want to go to  _ Bournemouth _ ?” Jon asks, all this in mind, and Gerry snorts.

“Fuck no,” she says. “But I want to burn the book that ruined your life. So.”

“I just don’t get why all of a sudden--”

“Because I love you, idiot,” Gerry says. “And you--you just went through hell for me to find a book that’s fucking worthless, so I should do  _ something _ in return.”

“I love you too,” Jon says, blinking away from Gerry. “I...alright.”

“Thank you,” Gerry says, with something close to a genuine smile. It only lasts a moment before he  _ twitches _ , hard, shaking their head violently.

“Are you alright?” Jon asks, immediately reaching a hand out in her direction, completely ineffectually. 

“Yeah,” Gerry says, slowly rolling their shoulders back. She squints down at the ground “I...I think we should go.”

“Go-- _ where _ ? Bournemouth? Now?” Jon asks, recoiling a little in surprise. 

“No, just...just  _ somewhere _ ,” Gerry says, leg bouncing rapidly. “We shouldn’t be here. Are you  _ fine _ here? Just sitting and--and waiting and  _ sitting  _ with everything? We finished the book, that’s our business here, so...why stay?”

“Because it’s our home?” Jon asks, lightly as he can manage, Gerry’s behavior striking some weird, dissonant, tense chord in his chest. 

“Yours, maybe,” Gerry says, starting to violently rub his thumb against his index finger. The words genuinely hurt, but Jon tries to just shrug them off. Trauma makes people behave strangely. He knows that well.

“Then where do you propose we go?”

“I don’t know,” Gerry says, shrugging. “Wanna stay in a cheap motel and get fucked up and pretend we’re a way sexier Bonnie and Clyde?”

“No,” Jon says. “We’re staying here tonight, Gerry, alright? I am, at least. If we  _ have _ to go to Bournemouth, it can wait until at least tomorrow.”

“But--”

“ _ No. _ ”

“I have to get out of here, Jon, I have to--I’m crawling out of my fucking skin, I can’t be here, I can’t be  _ me _ or--or my  _ mother _ or whatever the fuck I’m--whatever I’m turning into,” Gerry says, and their eyes are scared and shining bright. 

“Gerry…” Jon says, softly, tentatively reaching out and brushing a hand through Gerry’s greasy, still slightly blood-matted hair.

“Don’t touch me unless you mean it,” Gerry says.

“What does that mean?” Jon asks.

“I don’t know, right now,” Gerry says, sort of shuddering again. “There’s--I don’t feel--I  _ want _ you, and--” He sighs.

“Well. You can’t--”

“Have you, not like that, I know,” Gerry says, shaking his head. “But could you--could you just--you know--”

“No, I couldn’t,” Jon says, tightly. “And you know that, and please don’t ask.”

“Okay,” Gerry says, exhaling shakily. “Yeah. I know. I’m sorry.”

“No need to be sorry.” Jon sighs and rubs his face with both hands, glasses pushed up to his forehead. “It’s...this is…”

“Yeah.”

“I know you don’t want to be here and this isn’t your home, but…” Jon sighs again, drops his hands, and looks back up at Gerry as the glasses fall back onto his nose. “I would really--I want you to stay tonight.”

“Okay,” Gerry says, running a hand through her hair. “I’ll try.”

“Thank you,” Jon says. The words come out choked. He sits next to Gerry on the bed, and Gerry curls into his side, wrapping an arm around him. He kisses the top of her head, and closes his eyes, breathing in the familiar scent of blood and burning and old books.

When the initial rush of the smell fades, fear clenches his heart. He knows, with icy clarity, and terrible certainty, that someone’s looking for them. 

That’s not quite the right word, though, is it. No. 

Someone’s  _ hunting _ them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me? Heavy-handed? Pssshht.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoy!
> 
> CW: tense family relationships, questioning mental health?

Neither of them sleeps. Jon always knows when Gerry’s just pretending, but she doesn’t even do that, just lays there staring at the ceiling, foot endlessly sweeping back and forth against the mattress, occasionally colliding with Jon’s ankle.

Jon doesn’t try particularly hard either. His heart’s pounding too hard to even get close to a light rest, but he puts in an attempt, at least. His mind keeps drifting to  _ Mr. Spider _ . To how good it would feel to finally fucking destroy it, to take something that caused him so much pain and estrangement out of the world. That book stole his trust in himself, and he’s going to rip it to shreds before they burn it.

The feeling of being hunted, that’s--that’s just his old paranoia, creeping back up because of the fresh, deep trauma. Has to be. He knows nothing deserves rationalization anymore, but he can’t help himself. It not being real is better than the alternative by far.

He and Gerry must share some sort of brainwave, because they both give up the act at the same time. It’s too early in the morning, but Gerry rolls out of bed and lands in his lame ninja pose he loves to do at Jon, and Jon sits up and stretches, yawning performatively. He’s not actually tired, he realizes, despite the sleeplessness. He’s too excited for exhaustion, some kind of adrenaline keeping him wide awake. He’s itching to move, to get out of here, to find that  _ fucking _ book, and based on the ferocity Gerry lights a cigarette and smokes it with, he thinks they probably are too.

“You wanna go?” Jon asks, pulling his hair back. 

“You know I do,” Gerry says, grinning, and Jon can’t help himself from leaning in and quickly kissing him.

“We can stay with my grandmother,” Jon says, fairly confidently, and then he considers for a moment and adds an “I think.” He hasn’t gone back home in a while, and he doesn’t know how she’d receive him, especially not with someone like Gerry. He never had friends to stay over growing up, and he’s fairly certain she preferred it that way.

“Considering you’ve met my nightmare of a mother, it only seems fair I meet the bitch that raised you,” Gerry says, and, as always, righteous defensiveness flares up in Jon.

“Don’t call her that, you don’t even know her,” he says. “She did her best.”

“Guess I’ll see,” Gerry says. “I’m excited to meet her. Sort of just imagine her as you but old. Same clothes and all.”

“We  _ do  _ have similar tastes in fashion,” Jon says, half-smiling. “She doesn’t look anything like me, though. I look like my mum.”

“Thought you didn’t--”

“I’ve seen  _ pictures _ , Gerry,” Jon says, and Gerry closes his mouth and nods.

“Right. Yeah. Forgot those existed,” she says, pointing a fingergun in Jon’s direction. “My m-- _ Mary _ never showed me pictures of my dad, so I just…” They shrug.

“You have no idea what he looks like?”

“Not really. Doesn’t matter. I look like her.” Gerry almost laughs at themself, shaking their head. “Fuck, I  _ am _ her.”

“You’re not,” Jon says.

“Look, let’s go, this is getting too…” Gerry sighs and wiggles his fingers. “I don’t know, touchy-feely? Let’s fucking burn something.”

“I don’t think we'll find the--”

“I don’t think you know the Web,” Gerry says, and Jon shrugs, heart starting to race with anticipation again. He wants Gerry to be right  _ so _ badly. “It started something with you it never got to finish. It’ll show up.”

“That’s...ominous,” Jon says.

“Sorry, are you new here?” Gerry asks, smirking. “Look, I’ll keep you safe, you just have to promise not to read it.”

“I promise,” Jon says, and the second the words leave his mouth, he knows he’s lying. He’s almost in a cold sweat thinking about it. How could Gerry expect him not to open the book that ate his mind? He has to know he didn’t make any part of it u. He  _ needs _ this,  _ badly _ , and Gerry can’t stop him.

Like she’s reading his mind, Gerry adds “And if you  _ do _ read it, I’ll save your sorry ass.”

“Much appreciated,” Jon says, smiling at him.

“Let’s  _ go,  _ I’m  _ bored _ ,” Gerry whines.

“I bore you?” Jon asks, still smiling, giving Gerry a hard time because he feels it too. It feels like they’re on the edge of something.

“This conversation bores me, come on, let’s fucking  _ goooooooo _ .”

*

It’s not a long drive. Gerry sort of scoffs when Jon tells them to stop in front of his grandmother’s house. She parallel parks like a blind maniac and leans on the wheel, looking out the window at the house.

“What,” Jon asks, lips twitching, because he knows Gerry’s about to say something teasing and probably rude.

“No, it’s just exactly what I imagined,” Gerry says, shaking their head. “It’s the sort of house you’d grow up in.”

“Is that a compliment or an insult?” Jon asks, and Gerry shrugs.

“Full on neutral, babe.”

“Right, should...should we look first or should we get this bit over with?” Jon asks, scratching his eyebrow. He knows he should probably be feeling that deep pit of dread he tends to get when he visits his grandmother, that anxious jolt of subjecting himself to harsh scrutiny, but he’s just  _ excited _ . Ready to get it done and find that fucking book.

Gerry’s in the same headspace, clearly. “Let’s get it over with.”

“Right.” Jon sighs and gets out of the car, Gerry behind him like she’s trying to hide as he rings the doorbell and waits.

Jon’s grandmother opens the door after a minute, and squints at Jon from behind her glasses. Jon feels, as ever with her, uncomfortably  _ seen _ , and strongly judged.

“Jonathan,” she says, no emotion in her voice. “You should’ve called first.”

“Oh,” Jon says. “Right.” He  _ should’ve _ . He always has before. It just...slipped his mind. Seemed totally unimportant. He was thinking about  _ Mr. Spider _ , and Gerry, and that man’s burnt corpse in the ashes of the house in the middle of nowhere. “Is this a bad--”

“No,” his grandmother says, tightly. “Who’s your friend?”

“Hi,” Gerry says, sort of side-stepping out from behind Jon. “I’m Gerry.”

“Gerry,” she says, as if she finds the sound distasteful on her tongue, then turns back to Jon. “Is this the one you spoke to me about?”

“Uh, no,” Jon says, trying to remember what she’s talking about. “That was, uh, that was Georgie.”

“Very similar names. My apologies,” she says, and Gerry shrugs, wide-eyed. “Nancy Sims.” She extends a hand and Gerry shakes it, looking genuinely frightened.

“Gerry!” he squeaks again. “Keay.”

“Well, come in,” Nancy says, sighing. “I expect you want to stay here?”

“Just for a day or two,” Jon says. “If that’s alright, I mean, we can--”

“It’s fine.” She waves a hand, dismissively, leading them into the house. “A call in advance  _ would _ have been appreciated.”

“Sorry,” Jon says, softly. “Just, we’re looking for something, and we think it might be here, and we thought this would--”

“Are you well?” Nancy asks Gerry, who’s fervently working the sleeve of their sweater between their fingers. 

“Yep!” Gerry says, nodding.

“Thank you for asking,” Jon adds, quickly, because manners are  _ everything _ , Jonathan. 

“Where’s a bathroom?” Gerry asks, violently scratching the back of his hand. 

“Down the hall to the left,” Nancy sighs, pointing, and Gerry more or less bolts in the direction she’s pointing. She and Jon are left in silence for a moment, and it’s uncomfortable enough that Jon tries to break it.

“How are--”

“What are you and your  _ friend _ involved in, Jonathan,” she says, and it isn’t a question. He has no choice but to answer, he just tries to deflect as much as he can.

“What do you--”

“He looks like an addict.”

“They’re  _ not _ , but--”

“So do you.”

“I’m not on drugs,” Jon says, flatly. “Really.”

“Not the only thing you can get addicted to, is it?” she asks, tightly, staring straight through him.

“I guess not,” Jon breathes, unsure of how else to respond. “Do--uh, do you remember that--that book you gave me when I was little, the, uh--”

“The one that you required years of therapy for? Yes, as a matter of fact, I do.”

“Do you have any idea what--”

“Why would you go looking for it?” she asks, and Jon just shrugs, helplessly.

“I have to.”

She sighs through her nose and just sort of  _ hmms _ , turning to leave. “I want you and your  _ friend _ in here as little as possible.”

“Understood.”

“I don’t know what you’ll attract.”

Jon doesn’t know either, but whatever it is, he knows they’re already in town. Prowling. Waiting. His paranoia really is a killer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Am I implying that Jon's grandma is an avatar? Who knows! Maybe!


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm 95% sure there's only three chapters left, though these keep ending up longer than I expect, so who knows, it may be more. I hope you're all still enjoying it, thank you for sticking with me so long!!
> 
> CW: arguing, mental instability (no more than usual), loss of autonomy

By the time Gerry comes out of the bathroom, Nancy’s disappeared upstairs to do...something. Jon figures it doesn’t really matter, it only matters that she wants nothing to do with him, like always.

He would like to not be bitter, but he is. Just once, he’d like her to help him with something, or to at least--it doesn’t matter. None of it matters. Jon’s lucky he got apathy instead of being raised the way Gerry was. 

“Where’d she go?” Gerry asks, squinting and looking around, like she somehow would’ve shrunk and hidden.

“I don’t know,” Jon sighs, waving a hand dismissively. “Where do we start looking?”

“Are you okay?” Gerry asks, uncharacteristically softly. “Did she--”

“She didn’t do anything, Gerry, are you going to answer me?” Jon snaps, something flaring hot in his blood. He scratches at the back of his wrist, trying to get it to stop, somehow. Gerry’s eyes catch on his hand.

“Jon,” Gerry says. “Are. You. Okay.”

“ _ Yes _ , you’ve been doing this since yesterday, it’s--I’m  _ fine _ ,” Jon says, and Gerry squints in confusion.

“I’ve--no, I haven’t.”

“You haven’t noticed?” Jon asks, and Gerry shakes their head slowly. “Oh, god, then it’s probably--”

“--the book,” Gerry finishes, sighing, pressing both hands to her face. “Fuck.”

“Do you know--I mean, do you know what it’s doing to--” 

“ _ No _ , Jon, why would I?” Gerry asks. “In retrospect, we should’ve just burned it, but--but I thought--”

“Look, it’s  _ fine _ , we’ll burn it--we’ll burn it when we get back, but for now, we’re here, so--” Jon starts, then pauses. “I realize now that we may have come here under the influence of the Hunt.”

“Yeah, I’m realizing that too,” Gerry says, violently shuddering. “I guess we don’t really have a choice, unless we wanna end up like--uh, like--”

“Is it bad that we killed him without knowing his name?” Jon asks, quietly, and Gerry shudders again.

“The ‘we’ is sweet, but  _ you  _ didn’t kill him,” Gerry says. “And yes. Probably.”

“You think he fought it?” Jon asks.

“The claw marks on the walls? Door somehow locked from the outside so he couldn’t get out? Yeah, Jon, I think he fought it,” Gerry says. “Aren’t you supposed to be the critical thinker?”

“No need to get nasty, I wouldn’t  _ be _ here if not for you,” Jon more or less snarls, a little more aggressively than he’s used to or particularly comfortable with. He’s not feeling quite himself, and he’s now acutely aware of this new piece of his consciousness, the drive, the palm-itching craving to  _ find _ something and  _ destroy _ it.

He wonders if Gerry feels this all the time, with or without the book. He thinks they might, whether they’d ever admit it or not. They keep pushing, even when it’s dangerous, even when it’s exhausting--it’s a sickness, maybe.

That’s theirs to manage, though, not his. At least his resurgence of paranoia is probably coming from the book, though--though it doesn’t feel like it fits with the rest of it. Maybe that’s just him again.

“You’d be here regardless,” Gerry says. “You need this as bad as I do, asshole. Admit it, even now, even--even after--aren’t you happier than you ever were before?”

“Because of you,” Jon says.

“You fucking liar,” Gerry says. “Look, fine, don’t be honest with me, but at least be honest with yourself. You  _ love _ this. You  _ love _ seeing this horrible shit, you love the books, you--”

“Don’t tell me about myself, thank you,” Jon says. “I don’t really want to talk to you right now, actually, could we just--where should we look.”

“Wherever you found the book, I guess,” Gerry says, flatly, like the fight’s gone out of her. “You remember where that was?”

“My grandmother gave it to me,” Jon says, shrugging. “I think she got it from the charity bookshop on--”

“Your grandmother handed you a Leitner when you were eight and that doesn’t weird you out at all?”

“Accidents happen,” Jon says, voice more or less dead. “I don’t know what you’re implying, if you’re implying anything, but you’re wrong.”

“Fine,” Gerry says, putting their hands up. “We check the shop, then, I guess.”

“Great,” Jon sighs. “Sounds like a great plan. I’m sure it’ll be there again fucking magically after over a decade.”

“Do you wanna just go back to Oxford?” Gerry asks, an edge to his voice, and the thought of leaving now that they could be  _ so close _ sends a debilitating pulse of anxiety shuddering through Jon’s body, and he can’t help but twitch.

“No,” Jon says. “Of course not.”

“Then let’s go,” Gerry says. “The Web has a way, Jon, and like I said--it never finished with you. It’ll show.”

“It’s a  _ book _ ,” Jon says, exhaustion flooding his voice.

“Really? You’re gonna pull  _ that _ shit again, after everything?” Gerry asks, shaking his head. “You  _ know _ Leitners aren’t just books.”

“I just--I think you’re putting  _ a lot _ of faith in--”

“You think I’m excited to find something that’s inevitably going to try to kill you?” Gerry snaps, crossing her arms. “This isn’t going to be a fucking funfest, Jonathan.”

“Don’t call me that,  _ Gerard _ , and fine, then don’t come,” Jon says, throwing his hands up. “This was  _ your _ idea, though--I know you’re having a nervous breakdown because of what you did, really, I do, but you don’t have to--”

“I don’t know what’s happening to me,” Gerry says, and Jon stops dead. “But it’s something bigger than me, and I can’t stop it, and it-- _ It _ likes it when I burn Leitners. Which is--perverse, and probably shouldn’t be true, but. It’s out of my control.”

“I don’t know what’s happening to me either,” Jon says, softly, because he hasn’t quite admitted to himself yet that something  _ is _ happening to him, but it’s unavoidable. He  _ knows _ something’s--awakening in him? Maybe that’s the word. He  _ knows _ it with that horrid icy clarity he’s been getting a lot lately, the kind that feels like paranoia but true. 

“Nothing would be happening to you if it weren’t for me,” Gerry says, laughing humorlessly. “I tried to warn you.”

“You did,” Jon says. “Let’s...let’s go, I can’t really--do this.”

“Do what?”

“Whatever this is,” Jon says. “I--I mean, are we--”

“Yeah, I don’t know,” Gerry says, voice scratching their throat. “You’re right. Let’s save it for--for after we burn that fucker.”

“Okay.”

*

Jon doesn’t know which place his grandmother got  _ Mr. Spider _ from, but he has a dawning, sinking feeling that Gerry’s right, and that it won’t particularly matter. He also can still feel something following them, but he can’t tell what, and it’s making him sick with anxiety. Maybe that’s also just the book fucking with them. He misses when reality was simpler and less terrifying.

They’ve been walking down a shop-lined road, looking for the first used bookstore they see, and Jon’s mind is wandering. He can’t get it off that sense of being watched that he’d shaken for so long. He keeps looking behind him, shuddering with it, fully aware that people are consciously giving him and Gerry a wide berth. He gets it. He would too, probably, a year ago.

Gerry pulls on Jon’s wrist, stopping him dead, and yanking him into a store. The smell of stale air and dusty books is strangely relaxing, and Jon inhales deeply. He wanders down an aisle, vaguely in the direction of what looks like the kids’ section, and Gerry takes off in a different direction, scanning the shelves like she’s watching a tennis match, head quickly jerking back and forth as she speedreads the spines.

Jon knows he doesn’t need to put that kind of effort in. Knows Gerry was right. It’ll come to him. He idly runs his fingers over the spines, heart racing, impulse keeping him moving until it stops him dead. It’s a gut feeling that freezes him in his tracks, and he closes his eyes as his fingers land on an oddly familiar-feeling cover. His saliva dries in his throat, and he pulls the book off the shelf, eyes still squeezed shut.

He’s afraid and excited and it’s swirling in his chest so fast he can’t get air in. He gasps a breath, and forces himself to open his eyes, even though he doesn’t have to. He knows exactly what he’s holding.

The title accosts him immediately, unmistakable, and he’s eight years old again, standing frozen in its headlights. He feels very deep underwater. Light fades. The world narrows. Sound is muffled. Gerry’s calling his name, but it’s so far away. It doesn’t matter.

He knows what he has to do. He doesn’t have a choice. Even if he didn’t want to open the book, he knows it would make him. Mr. Spider wants more, right?

He shudders violently as he opens the cover. Gerry’s hand closes around his wrist, and then, inexplicably, lets go. 

Jon starts reading, even though he realizes as he does that he has the entire thing memorized. Mr. Spider seems to almost smile up at him, like an old friend welcoming him home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter I get to add new character tags, aren't you excited? I'm sure you can guess who's hunting them, lol


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure this ended up quite like I wanted but...I am trying. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> CW: police brutality, guns, loss of self/loss of control, arguing

There’s never been a choice. Everything was always building to this moment, in the end, right? Nothing ever cut the strings wrapped around Jon’s thin, small, child’s limbs, and as he grew they just became a part of him. He was always meant to wind up back here. 

Maybe that’s why he met Gerry. Why all of this happened. It was just leading back to this grand reunion, this epic, twisted romance between god and prey--Jon knows that once he reaches the end of this book he’ll die, but he can’t tear his eyes away, and he can’t tell if he wants to or not. It’s like when he flicks a lighter on, cigarette between his lips, and he knows he doesn’t need it, doesn’t necessarily want it, but he goes through the rote motion because he’s utterly and completely stuck. 

There’s no point struggling. The Web would just twist tighter. If it wants him to die here, he’ll die here. 

(Something deeper in him struggles like a beast with its leg stuck in a trap, still snarling and snapping, desperate to sink its teeth into the thing that caught it and tear it to pieces, and it sends waves of alert, freezing clarity through him--not enough, though, not enough, never, never enough--

\--and there’s screaming in his ear he can almost make out, it sounds like his name, or at least the name he’s never cared enough to change, more of a signifier than a name, he doesn’t own or inhabit it, but it refers to him, and it’s not like he can find anything better than it--)

_ Mr. Spider doesn’t like it _ . He should stop twisting the strings tighter. Stop letting  _ the others _ in. He is  _ for  _ the Web, and Mr. Spider doesn’t want other gods tainting his dinner. 

He feels vertigo as he reads on. He knows he’s reaching the end of it at a dizzying speed, and no one and nothing is going to save him. It starts to pull his hand up-- _ it is polite to knock _ \--and he starts to--

He hits the pavement hard and the book flies out of his hands. The ground knocks the wind out of him and he struggles for air, Gerry on top of him, pinning him down, in the middle of shouting something that’s probably along the lines of how fucking stupid Jon is, etc.

“Get off me,” Jon manages to gasp out, and Gerry lets go of him and stands up, eyes dark. 

“You could thank me,” Gerry says, and Jon knows he should, but he can’t help but feel sort of cheated, like he finally found what he was supposed to be doing for the first time in his life, and Gerry wrenched it away from him.

“Can’t breathe,” Jon says instead, and Gerry softens slightly, crossing his arms and watching with a furrowed brow as Jon fights to get his wind back. He doesn’t think anything’s broken, but the pavement definitely tore through his skin, and it stings like mad. It takes him a moment to register where they are--a path in a park, with no one around. A perfect place to be devoured whole and forgotten.

“We have to burn it, Jon,” Gerry says. “Like  _ now _ .”

“Yeah,” Jon wheezes, but makes no effort to get up, just stares blankly at the book, lying in the dirt a foot or so away from him. 

“You satisfied it’s real yet?” Gerry asks, obvious edge of irritation in his voice.

“No need for sarcasm,” Jon says, at a whisper, because it’s all he can manage. There’s silence for a moment, and Jon tries to get up, and while he’s looking at the dirty concrete under him, something in the core of his being flares alert and white-hot, and he manages to get to his feet right as a gun cocks, pushed into the back of Gerry’s head. 

Gerry goes completely rigid, eyes wide and panicked, staring directly into Jon’s. Jon doesn’t know if Gerry’s telling him to run, but the wild animal the Hunt unleashed into Jon’s mind certainly is. It’s telling him to take the book and burn it and save himself and leave Gerry.

He’s not going to do that, though. He can’t.

The woman holding the gun is resolute and laser-focused and even though she’s not wearing a uniform or a badge, Jon can somehow tell she’s a cop. He tells himself there must be some reason he knows that. Some dead giveaway he forgot he knew--but there’s nothing, so he just--he just  _ knows _ it.

“Don’t you dare touch that book,” she says, tightening her grip on her gun, glaring over Gerry’s shoulder at Jon. 

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Jon says, slowly raising both his hands. “What do you want with us?”

“She’s the one who was--” Gerry starts hissing, probably stating the obvious because they’re panicking.

“I know,” Jon says, softly.

“A house in the country was burned to the ground a few days ago,” the woman says. “About five hours north of here. There was a dead man in the wreckage.”

“And?” Gerry asks, as shittily as humanly possible, and the woman elbows him hard between the shoulderblades, sending him to the ground on his knees. She keeps her gun trained on him, execution style.

“You get on the ground too,” she says, sitting those starving eyes back on Jon. “No sudden moves or I shoot him.”

“It’s not as if we’re in the middle of nowhere,” Jon says, as evenly as he can, slowly kneeling on the ground. “Civilization is  _ moments _ away, and you’re a  _ cop _ \--”

“She’s a  _ what _ ?” Gerry asks, and the woman growls slightly.

“I wouldn’t worry about me,” she snarls.

“I’m not,” Jon says. “What was that about a dead man in a burnt-down house? Seems like a strange thing to tell people you have at gunpoint.”

“There’s no use pretending,” she says. “I know it was you two, I can smell it.”

“Is that a formal investigation technique, now, Officer Tonner?” Jon asks, cocking his head. He--well, he’s terrified he knows her name, but there’s nothing to be done about it, now that it’s already slipped out of him.

“Jon,” Gerry says, softly, eyes deeply frightened. They mouth the next part.  _ Stop fucking around _ .

“How do you know my name?” she asks, voice going strange and inscrutable, pointing the gun at Jon. Gerry near-sags with relief.

“Alice, isn’t it?” Jon asks, because some sort of floodgate is opening in his mind, sweeping him away, and he’s hardly aware of having a  _ self _ apart from this torrent of knowledge. “No, sorry--Daisy.”

“What are you,” she says, and Jon laughs, breathlessly, at the absurdity of the entire situation.

“I have no idea,” he says. “I don’t know anything about myself, but I know  _ a lot _ about you.”

“You killed that man,” Daisy says, not a question, stepping closer, Gerry forgotten to her side.

“Matthew Phipps?” Jon asks, because that’s information he’s capable of pulling from thin air now, advisable or not. “I didn’t, actually.”

“Then  _ he  _ did.”

“Why come after us?” Jon asks, genuinely curious now. “Is it some sort of pack mentality? Looking out for your kind?”

“What?” she asks. Gerry slowly inches away from her, and Jon desperately tries to hang onto her attention so she doesn’t notice and shoot Gerry. 

“You serve the Hunt,” Jon says. Not a question. Even without this--this tidal wave of pure knowledge that  _ isn’t him _ , the beast between his ribs he needs to incinerate calls to something in her. Kin and enemy.

“I don’t serve anything,” Daisy says dismissively, guard not dropping at all. “I kill bad people. Murderers.”

“We’re not murderers,” Jon says. “The man--Matthew--he asked to be killed. I swear to you.”

“He was cursed,” Gerry says, apparently given up on trying to find an exit strategy. “We are as well, and we can--we can break it if you let us go. We know how.”

“Why would I believe you?” Daisy asks.

“Look, I--I feel it too,” Gerry says. “That--the compulsion. The hunger, the--the need to destroy ‘evil’, I  _ get it _ . It has me too. I promise, that’s what we do too, we don’t--we don’t hurt people. Unless--”

“We can set you in the direction of a monster,” Jon says, speaking without thinking, still. “A murderer. Someone you absolutely should take out of the world. Just let us go.”

“You’re both--you’re both--”

“We’re using it for good,” Gerry says, though he’s giving Jon an ‘I have no idea where you’re going with this’ look.

“Give me a name and an address, and if it checks out, I won’t track you down and kill you,” Daisy says, cautiously. “If it doesn’t, then trust me, I will. If you kill again, if you-- _ I will _ .”

“Understood,” Jon says.

“So?”

“Mary Keay,” Jon says, not missing a beat, tone unchanged. “Pinhole Books in Morden. She kills people and binds their skin into a book. Traps them for eternity.”

Gerry’s eyes are wide, mouthing words that don’t come out, but he finds his voice. “Jon, you--”

“You’d be doing the world a service by destroying her,” Jon says, and Daisy nods, slowly, not breaking eye contact, but slowly lowering her gun.

“I’ll find you,” she says, finally, turning and leaving.

A dam comes up in Jon’s mind, the flood of knowledge stemmed, stuck where it came from, and he sighs in relief, tilting his head up. “Fuck, Gerry, that--”

“What the  _ fuck _ do you think you’re doing?” Gerry hisses. “Mary--she’s already  _ dead _ , first off, so that--that  _ psycho Hunt cop _ will come back and kill us, and--and second, she’s not  _ your _ monster to--”

“Are we dead?” Jon asks, and Gerry sputters. “No. So I think I did the right thing.”

“I--the  _ right thing _ ?” Gerry asks. “Jon, you haven’t done the right thing--you--” She shakes her head and hugs herself. “I’ll take your book and burn it. You--you should go back to Oxford on your own. Burn the Hunt book.”

“What if I can’t?”

“Call me, I guess,” Gerry says.

“Where are  _ you _ going?” Jon asks.

“Morden,” Gerry says. 

“To do--”

“None of your fucking business. You’ll probably just  _ know _ anyway,” Gerry says. “Should’ve known it’d be the Eye with you. You never let anything go.”

“The--”

“Stop pretending. Stop denying it. Alright? We’re both--we fucked the fire and now we’re burning, yeah? We’re claimed. And I’m pissed at you, so.”

“Okay,” Jon says, softly. Gerry gets to their feet shakily and grabs Mr. Spider off the ground, brushing the dirt off and putting it under his arm.

“I’ll see you, Jon.”

“Yeah.”


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm actually managing to stick to an outline, so I'm pretty sure the next chapter is gonna be the last one! Thanks for sticking around <3 Hope you enjoy.
> 
> CW: alcohol, drug use, mental health issues, parental issues

When Jon finally gets back to his flat in Oxford, he pulls out the bottle of cheap shitty vodka Gerry keeps in their freezer, slams as much as he can manage, and burns the Hunt book in the kitchen sink, trying for once in his miserable fucking life not to think about anything. 

That’s hard, though, extremely so, especially with the—the Eye. It flutters open and shut, off and on, unpredictably, and that unpredictability only gets worse as the alcohol settles into his bloodstream. He’ll be on the fire escape smoking, and then It’ll decide to flicker wide open in his mind, and then he’ll be drowning, choking on smoke, as he sees in excruciating detail how his parents died, how they felt—how his grandmother felt when he ended up with her, how—he’s trapped until it shuts off and he can breathe again. 

It’s getting to the point where he’d be willing to do just about anything for a modicum of control, for a way to—to  _ stop _ this, to break the merciless hold It has on him. He’s sure that’s what It’s counting on, but what choice does he have?

It won’t show him anything he actually wants to see, though. He can’t find Gerry, and he wants to. Badly. It’s the alcohol making him restless and sad and desperate, the opposite of what it was meant to do, but when has anything worked properly for him? At least the Hunt’s hold on him is broken, it’s a definite change in base state, which is something. 

He misses Gerry. Hates being alone after knowing he had someone. He doesn’t quite get what he did  _ wrong _ , though. Gerry hates their mother, and—and maybe Alice...Daisy...maybe she can  _ do _ something about it. 

Or maybe he shouldn’t have meddled. Maybe he should’ve let it be. But that was the only way out he saw. Maybe the Eye helped him, but he doesn’t think so. 

He calls Gerry before he can think about it or stop himself. Gets their voicemail.  _ Fuck off if you think I’m giving you my name, you should know who you’re calling _ and then the beep. 

He considers hanging up briefly, but the vodka seems to have other ideas, and he ends up rambling an apology and a plea along the lines of  _ I’m sorry I read the book, that was stupid, and I’m sorry about your mum, I panicked, and I hope you’re okay, I hope you don’t hate me, please call me, please come home? _

It’s pathetic and he truly hates himself for it, but only briefly, before the numbness sets in. He was proud of himself for not doing anything like that to Georgie. Maybe he’s not as strong as he’d hoped. Maybe he just really loves Gerry, though that’s a frightening thought, considering that this all feels close to its logical end. Tightrope’s running out and all that. 

He chokes back more godawful vodka, hugs himself against the riptide of unwanted knowledge, and tries to just pass out so he can end this day. 

His dreams aren’t dreams. They’re all fact and no subconscious. Freud can eat Jon’s ass. The Eye finally gives him what he wants, and he sees—

*

Gerry gets back to Morden with blood pounding in his ears, fear and hunger and something like excitement. 

They can barely get the key in the lock, can barely twist it open, shaky and starving for—for—for  _ what _ ? Fuck the Hunt for being so  _ vague _ and fuck Jon for not having burnt the book yet, never mind that he probably won’t get back to Oxford any time soon since Gerry stranded him without a car. 

(It’s a vain hope that burning the book’s gonna solve anything. Gerry knows that. Really, she does, but it’s better than fully accepting. They don’t ever want to be like that bitch with her gun to his head, serving a god they don’t want to believe in, but the inevitability keeps inching closer.)

Mary is...not there. Gerry could tear the place apart looking for her book, but he knows it’d be for nothing. He’s done that at least fifty times since she got herself bound in it. He doesn’t quite know why he’s so worried about warning her. 

It’s not like that fucking cop is gonna do any better at finding the book, full-on Hunt avatar or no, but he feels a compulsion anyway. Family loyalty, maybe, though the thought makes him laugh and also makes him a little nauseated. They’re not a fan of wanting to protect the woman that killed their father, but it’s not like they  _ knew _ their father, so. She’s what they’ve got.

They sit on the floor between the stacks, defeated. “Mary?” he calls, last-ditch, then, after a long moment, “Mum?”

Nothing. No frustrated  _ Gerard _ , no sudden screaming manifestation. Feels like those horrible moments of silence right after she died where he thought maybe she was gone forever and he was flooded with relief and pain and loneliness and relief and--

Well. No point dwelling on the past. She’s made his life fucking miserable. Hates that her child is spending their life burning everything she stands for. That’s why they do it, as much as helping people. 

So he rips a page out of the book that nearly ate Jon without looking at it, rolls a shitty joint with it, and lights it. Smokes the entire thing sitting on the floor, and then picks himself up and burns the book in the small, loveless kitchen in the back of the store. 

Being alone usually doesn’t get to her, but she feels it in her bones, even as she gets a dizzying headrush from watching the book burn.  _ Thanks, patron fucker!  _

Sure, some of it might be the actual drugs, but probably not, considering the excitement and adrenaline and desire to go out and burn more scorches through his veins. 

They lose time leaning on the kitchen counter. Their phone rings and they don’t have the energy to pull it out of their pocket. It’s probably Jon, and they don’t really want to think about Jon. Fuck Jon, even though Jon is unfuckable. 

They love him, probably, as much as they can, but he’s  _ turning _ , cold and detached and semi-monstrous, and everything’s a fight, and maybe it’s better to let it all die and keep Jon away from them for his own good. Gerry’s feeling more and more like they could eat someone alive. 

Besides, if that pig ends up going after Mary, she’s going to become a  _ lot _ more inhospitable than she already was. Gerry’s managed to keep her off Jon so far, but if his name came up in relation to this...there’s not much Gerry would be able to do.

So they just stand there, losing distorted time, weed coating their brain, too fogged to do much of anything. It’s their preferred state these days, especially waiting for an axe to fall. Not much to do  _ other _ than wait.

*

\--yeah. That. Jon wakes up foggy and restless, head gently throbbing, hating himself for putting Gerry in that position but not knowing what to do about it. He could go to Morden and face it head-on, but he’s not confident in his ability to make it without the Eye rendering him useless and shaking on public transit, and he doesn’t really want to be hospitalized again at this particular point in time. 

He’s also feeling a new, unfamiliar sort of hunger opening in his being, and it scares him, a bone-deep sort of fear, so staying in seems...correct. He’ll just wait. For Gerry to call, or for the Eye to show him how everything plays out. Nothing else to be done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3<3


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Halloween! I can only offer you the horror of bad relationships.
> 
> Thank you all so much for sticking with this fic! I've had a fantastic time writing it and y'all have been incredible <3 Please check out this absolutely wonderful fanart by [@ceaslessrainfall](https://ceaslessrainfall.tumblr.com/post/632543370965811201/theyve-burned-about-two-dozen-leitners-in-six-odd)!
> 
> CW: arguing, mental instability, implied alcohol abuse

Days go by. They don’t mean much. Jon stays inside, keeps the curtains closed, doesn’t turn any lights on. Darkness seems to keep the Eye quieter, somehow, and he can’t handle anything other than that. He doesn’t go to work because he doesn’t want to be overwhelmed, and doesn’t want to violate the people around him by accident. Doesn’t call out because there’s no real way to explain what’s happening to him.

Gerry still doesn’t call, and worry builds in his chest, fast-vibrating and white-hot. He tries to reach them several times, but still only ever gets their voicemail.

Eventually it gets to be too much. He can’t just wait forever in fucking limbo, hoping something will happen. He forces himself to shower and get dressed, still in the dark. When he finally manages to psych himself up to go outside, daylight blinds him, and he has to hover in the doorway of his building, arm shielding his eyes.

He makes himself get on the bus to Morden. Everything around him is so loud and overwhelming it’s like a pressure in his head, compacting his own mind into a tiny little cube in the center of his skull, knowledge of everyone trapped on the bus with him flooding in and taking its place. It makes him feel violently ill, and he keeps his eyes shut, unable to process any of the information flooding in.

It’s an excruciatingly long ride, but finally he hears his stop, through the torrent in his mind, and he staggers off the bus, hand pressed to his ear. He doesn’t make a conscious effort to even turn in the direction of Pinhole Books, but he makes it there somehow. The noise all  _ stops _ when he reaches it, like some kind of deadzone, and while it’s a welcome relief, it also chills him to his core.

He rings the doorbell. Minutes stretch on, and no one comes to the door. He rings it again, waits, again, waits--finally he just starts banging, shouting for Gerry, because he’s  _ terrified _ something’s happened and he doesn’t know what else to do. His hands sting from slamming the wood, and he starts looking around for some way to break in, maybe, he thinks he knows how to do that after months with Gerry. As he’s considering whether or not to break a window with his bare hands, the door’s wrenched open.

Gerry looks...bad. They brace on the doorframe, looking a little unsteady on their feet. The bags under their eyes are dark and deep, and their hair’s gone, buzzed off. They sigh when they see Jon.

“Just fuck off,” they say, and their voice is scratched and exhausted. They go to close the door, but Jon shoves his foot in the way, wincing as the door slams on it.

“Not until you talk to me,” Jon says.

“Do I have to kick your ass out into the street, Jon?” they ask, exasperated. “Just  _ listen  _ for once.”

“Are you alright?”

“Does it look like I’m alright?” Gerry asks, rolling his eyes and walking away from the door, a bit of a weave in his step. Jon follows him in, cautiously, closing the door behind him.

The place is trashed. Books and stray pages cover the floor, shelves broken and splintered on the ground, shattered bottles and empty lighters and a pervasive smell of butane and ash. “What happened?” Jon asks, softly, shocked and horrified by the sight--as much as he’s learned not to trust books, seeing them destroyed still feels deeply  _ wrong _ . It’s probably the fumes, but his head pounds as his mind spirals into the implications of all those old books being lost forever.

“What does it look like?” Gerry asks, sitting down hard on a pile of defaced books. “Your cop friend came by.”

“She did all this?” Jon asks.

“No,” Gerry says, and doesn’t elaborate, running a hand over her head. “Not all of it.”

“Did she hurt you?”

“Nope. I was surprised, actually. She couldn’t get at Mary, obviously, and I thought  _ well fuck, this is it _ , but she said since you didn’t lie she didn’t feel good hurting us,” Gerry says. “So good job, I guess.”

“So--so  _ you _ did this,” Jon says, gesturing at the wreckage. Gerry gives him a completely joyless, very toothy smile.

“It’s what I’m best at,” Gerry says. “I was looking for Mary’s book.”

“No luck?”

Gerry laughs. It’s manic and frightening and humorless, and they shake their head, looking at the ground. “None whatsoever.”

“I’m--”

“Instead of saying you’re sorry, why don’t you fucking use Beholding for something  _ useful _ ?” Gerry asks, head snapping back up. “You could find it, right? You could--”

“It doesn’t work in here,” Jon says, softly, shrugging apologetically. “I don’t know why, maybe Mary--”

“ _ Fuck _ !” Gerry picks up a book and chucks it across the room. “She’s--Jon, I mean, really, you’d better not be lying, because--”

“I know,” Jon says. “I’m not.”

Gerry sighs, shakily, hugging himself. “Then you should go.”

“I don’t particularly want to leave you like--”

“Like  _ what _ .”

“Don’t make me say it,” Jon says, and Gerry snorts.

“You don’t know the half of it,” she says. “I’m not fucking around, Jon, I want you to leave.”

“But--”

“I don’t ever want to see you again. I’m serious.”

“ _ You _ dragged me into this, you don’t get to just--” Jon starts, because he doesn’t want this to end, he doesn’t want to be  _ alone _ again.

“I get to do whatever the fuck I want,” Gerry says, standing up and nearly falling, foot sliding on a stray book. “And you dragged yourself into this. I  _ tried _ to get you to fuck off  _ so many times _ , and you didn’t listen to me, and now--now look at you. You don’t get to blame me.”

“I don’t want to leave you,” Jon says, and Gerry rolls their eyes again, tilting their chin up and staring at the ceiling. 

“You know life isn’t all about what  _ you  _ want, right?” Gerry asks, looking back at him. “I’ve never gotten a single fucking thing I want.”

“But  _ why _ , what did I do, it’s--”

“We’re not great for each other, Jon, be honest,” Gerry says, voice bitter and dry. “Better to just get the end over with now.”

“Fine,” Jon says, feeling a bit like he’s freefalling. He doesn’t know how to be alone in this world Gerry pulled him into--yes, fine, it was Jon’s fault, but still, he’s here because of Gerry. Part of him briefly flashes on...if they’re breaking up, if this is it, maybe he should tell Gerry how he dies--but that can’t end well, and he doesn’t want to make this hurt anymore.

“It’s been...productive,” Gerry says, shrugging. “If nothing else.”

The words pang through Jon’s heart like a knife.  _ If nothing else _ . He manages a breathless “Fuck you,” and Gerry almost looks satisfied, like that was the reaction she wanted.

“You gonna leave?”

“Why are you doing this.”

“Why does there have to be a reason?” Gerry asks, looking away, trying to brush back hair they don’t have anymore, realizing, and dropping their hand.

“Because I know there is.”

“You said you’re not all-seeing here,” Gerry says, shrugging. “Maybe you’re reading into things.”

“You--do you really mean all this?” Jon asks.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“You’re drunk, and--” Jon starts, and Gerry scoffs. “You  _ are _ , and I’m worried about you, and I get if you’re not yourself, it was...that wasn’t  _ good _ , obviously not, and you probably need  _ help _ and--”

“And you’re going to  _ help _ me, Jon? You’re going to save me?” Gerry asks, shaking his head. “Just leave. I can’t deal with your chronic protagonist syndrome.”

“Fine,” Jon says, softly, defeated. “I love you.”

Gerry lets out a winded breath at that. “That’s really unfortunate, mate. Now fuck off.”

“What am I supposed to  _ do _ now?” Jon asks. 

Gerry shrugs, shoulders up to his ears. “Not my problem.”

“You’re really fucking cruel.”

“Apples can’t get far from their trees no matter how hard they try,” Gerry says. “That’s just physics.”

“Don’t blame being an asshole on your mother.”

“Didn’t I tell you to leave several times already?” Gerry asks, scratching his eyebrow. “I can escort you out, if--”

“ _ Alright _ ,” Jon says, throwing his hands up and leaving.

He doesn’t cry on the bus home, but it’s a near-miss sort of thing. His flat is a dark, gaping void. He sits crosslegged on his bed, not bothering to take his shoes off, closes his eyes, and presses his hands over them, taking a breath, bracing himself, and reaching out for that straining floodgate in his mind. 

He dives in, searching the Marianas Trench of knowledge for anomalies, patterns--the things Gerry taught him to look for. There’s still books out there to be burned, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all again <3<3 Hope you guys are ready for my planned sequel, cuz I'm pretty psyched to write it.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!! All feedback is greatly appreciated <3  
> Find me on tumblr @witnesstotheend


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